


The Princess and the Pariah

by TheMourningMadam



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-05-17 08:15:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 90,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14828672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMourningMadam/pseuds/TheMourningMadam
Summary: Hermione Granger spent the Horcrux hunt obsessively consulting a scrying mirror to watch visions of Draco Malfoy's past, present and future. Now, back at Hogwarts for her "8th year," she is determined to bring the broken, outcasted man closer to her, to make her visions become reality. Companion piece to The Art of Divination-would help to read that first, to get the backstory!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been beta'ed by sunshinekatz. So a big thank you to her!

**_“I wanna love somebody,_ **

**_But I don’t know how._ **

**_I’ve been so long lonely_ **

**_And it’s getting me down…”_ **

**_‘Sucker’s Prayer’ by the Decemberists_ **

 

 

Hermione Granger sat alone in a cabin on the Hogwarts Express, heading to her delayed seventh year. The War had been won four months prior, but there was certainly turmoil raging within the young woman. So much had happened in the months since the Final Battle. She had gone to Australia with Arthur Weasley, hoping to restore her parents’ memories, but they were too far gone, her Memory Charm too powerful. She’d attended more funerals than she hoped to ever attend again, most directly affected by the funeral pyre ceremony of Fred Weasley. She’d held Ron throughout the funeral as he openly wept into her shoulder.

But that was where her easy friendship with Ron had ended. She held no hard feelings toward him—he’d lost a brother to the War and he was lost on how to grieve properly. The stress of the year prior, the fact that he’d left the hunt for Horcruxes—it all took a toll on their friendship. They had spent the rest of the summer bickering and engaging in all-out rows that sent Harry and Ginny outside to escape the ferocious screaming.

_When they had all received the offer from the Ministry to begin training as Aurors, he and Harry had immediately accepted, not giving it a second thought. Hermione, instead, reread the offer from Headmistress McGonagall, asking that she return to school to study for her NEWTs. She handed the letter of offer back to Kingsley Shacklebolt and shook her head. “I don’t think so, Minister. I’d like to go back to Hogwarts.”_

_“Back to Hogwarts?” Ron asked incredulously. “Our friends and my brother all died there, Hermione.”_

_She bristled at his tone. “I’m well aware. I just think it might be therapeutic and help bring me some closure, Ronald.”_

_The Minister and Harry excused themselves, sensing the coming danger. He studied her for a minute. “You just want to go back because_ he _is! Incredible!”_

_“What are you going on about now?” she asked, irritation ringing in her ears and making her hands vibrate._

_“Malfoy! You’re going back to the school because you found out he is!” he accused._

_“You’re being ridiculous,” she told him, though she knew he was, in part, right._

As Hermione sat on the train, staring out of the window, she tried to focus on her upcoming year. She had politely declined the position of Head Girl, telling the Headmistress that she wanted to focus on her studies with as few extraneous responsibilities as possible. There hadn’t been a simple year yet, but with Voldemort gone, she had confidence that this would be the year.

She had arrived an hour early for the train and had snuck on without turning too many heads, and she hoped that the sobering and hallowed environment of the castle would tamp down the attention. The Trio had given one interview as a collective unit, but both Harry and Ron had continued to talk to the press. Harry wanted to show the world that he had been telling the truth all along, wanted his side of the story known. Ron relished the attention being showered upon him for the first time in his life, his one happiness in the face of his grief. Hermione had been reclusive after their group interview.

The compartment door slid open and the blond head she’d longed to see all summer peeked in. Hermione hadn’t seen Draco Malfoy since his trial at the beginning of July. She and Harry both had testified on his behalf, and Harry on Narcissa’s behalf as well. Malfoy had gotten off conditionally—two years of probation and he had to donate his time doing community service twice a month. His mother had been placed on closely monitored probation. And Lucius Malfoy had been sentenced to one year in Azkaban. All light sentences, but they had defected. As she so oft tried to drill into Ron’s head.

She had tried her hand at scrying multiple times over the summer—in regular mirrors, in the surface of her cauldron, in the rippling waves of the pond by the Burrow. But she could never get as immersed as she once had. Every time she attempted, she’d see a faint flicker of a picture before it fizzled out. Her original mirror had cracked in the skirmish back at Malfoy Manor in the spring, and she’d spent her nights trying time and again to reach out to the blond. “Oh…Sorry. Come on Theo, we’ll find somewhere else,” he said, sliding the door closed.

“Malfoy, wait!” she called, and he turned back.

She cleared her throat. “You’re both more than welcome to sit here. I was just getting ready to start reading our new History of Magic text.”

“How enthralling,” Malfoy said, rolling his eyes as he and Theodore Nott sat across from her.

Hermione pulled the book from her bag. “So, you didn’t want me to read it aloud, then?” she teased, and Theo laughed.

“Actually,” Malfoy said, leaning back into his seat and putting his hands behind his head. “That might be beneficial. I fancy a nap.”

She nudged his outstretched foot with the toe of her trainer. “So hilarious,” she quipped, burying her face in her textbook.

He opened one eye and looked her over once. “What are you wearing, Granger?” he asked, his tone inquisitive rather than biting.

Hermione looked down at her clothing. All summer, she’d felt more at home in her skirts, flannels, thigh-high stockings and high-top Converse shoes. Her entire wizarding life, she’d tried to convey a clean-cut image, only expressing her personality when she was home with her parents or at the Burrow. There had always been so much to prove to everyone as a Muggle-born in the Wizarding World. No more. She was done hiding who she was. Life was too short to care what others thought of her.

“What’s wrong with my clothing?” she asked with a shrug.

“It’s…” Malfoy didn’t seem to have a word.

“Most unusual seeing you in a short plaid skirt and black thigh-highs? And in Slytherin colors, no less,” Theo supplied, breaking the tension in the room.

Hermione laughed just as Ginny opened the door and plopped down next to her. She nodded once at each of their serpentine compartment buddies, knowing that the lean blond was the one Hermione wished to pursue—she’d play nice for her friend. Hermione suspected Theo was doing just the same. “This Head Girl business is for the birds,” Ginny said, clearly exhausted of her duties despite the train only just jolting to a start.

“What’s the matter, Weasley? Can’t handle a few first years?” Theo asked, settling further into his seat as they gently swayed with the rocking of the train.

“They’re bloodthirsty little demons! And all they want to do is talk about you, Ron and Harry,” she replied, giving Hermione a pointed look.

Malfoy lifted his head from the headrest to look at Hermione, an eyebrow raised. Hermione blushed and burrowed herself even further behind her book. “Tell them to sod off,” she mumbled, and Theo snorted.

“They’re calling you the Golden Trio’s _Princess_ ,” Ginny said with a groan.

That caused Malfoy to scoff and laugh. “My, my. Gryffindor’s little know-it-all grew into the Princess the wizarding world always needed…I’m still not calling the Weasel a prince.”

“If you remember correctly,” Hermione lowered her book slightly to look at Malfoy, who was wearing a smug look on his face, “Weasley is our _King_.”

Theo laughed heartily at Hermione’s quip and nudged Malfoy’s arm. “Feisty. Touché, Granger.”

A smile played at Malfoy’s lips, but he turned his attention to stare out of the window. Theo engaged Ginny in talk of Quidditch tryouts and she slowly let her guard down, seeing the genuineness in Theo’s features. Hermione couldn’t remember a time when she’d ever spoken to Theodore Nott, but she remembered how prominently he’d been featured in Malfoy’s life while she scryed. _“What of Granger? She will never accept you with a Mark on your arm and Dumbledore’s blood on your hands.”_ Theo had questioned Malfoy about her.

Hermione dared to glance over the top of her book, a few seconds at a time, to take in the sight of Malfoy across from her. He was as lean and fit as ever, his features angular and jaw sharp. His cheeks were still gaunt, cast in shadows beneath prominent cheekbones. He had rings of violet around his eyes and looked as though he hadn’t slept in months. His chin rested in his cupped hand and he had his other arm draped across his chest, his legs extended, his right ankle crossed over the left. Though he looked relaxed, she noticed the set of his shoulders was tense.

She peered over her book for the fifth or sixth time and he was eyeing her in his peripheral. She gave him a small smile and he turned his eyes back to look out over the Scottish countryside. When the treat trolley came around, Malfoy purchased enough for the four of them. “I don’t know what you all like, but take your pick,” he said, dropping armfuls onto the empty seat beside Ginny.

“Malfoy…are you being… _kind?_ ” Ginny asked, retrieving a treacle tart from the pile.

The blond gave her a mock glare and mumbled, “Don’t get used to it,” as he crossed his arms over his chest once more.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Ginny replied, flipping through a _Quibbler_ absentmindedly.

Hermione leaned over Ginny and scooped up a chocolate frog. “I suspect you’ll be getting your own card soon?” Theo surmised, nodding toward the purple box.

She looked down at the box and then tossed it in the window sill, no longer hungry. “They took the pictures for them a while ago…so it might already be in here…”

“What a terrible life, to be a beloved War heroine,” Theo quipped, popping some Bertie Bott’s into his mouth and wincing as he bit into a vomit bean.

Hermione shrugged. “I never asked for this. I just wanted to defeat Voldemort.”

“Forgive me if I can’t relate to your unfortunate situation. See, we are the sons of Death Eaters,” Theo moved a finger between himself and Malfoy, “and he’s a former Death Eater. The attention we are bound to receive will be significantly less complimentary.”

“Nott,” Malfoy’s tone was a warning.

Theo shot him a sideways glance and looked through the window and into the corridor outside, watching a few first years mosey past. Ginny was fully glaring at the burly man, no longer feigning pleasantness. Malfoy gave Hermione an apologetic shrug of one shoulder and she nodded once in response.

After that awkward exchange, the mood in the cabin had been brought down significantly. The four remained quiet until Ginny announced that she was going to meet the Head Boy, Zacharias Smith from Hufflepuff, to brief the first years on their arrival to the school. Hermione excused herself to go and change into her robes in a restroom, avoiding two Ravenclaw second years asking for her picture.

Neville was in the corridor when she headed back to her cabin, tinkering with his trunk, his own fan club staring from afar. He was the one that killed the snake, after all. “I was hoping you’d come back, Hermione!” he said with a warm smile and a warmer hug.

“It’s good to see you, Nev. A fellow Gryffindor returnee,” Hermione smiled warmly.

“Professor Sprout wrote to me and insisted I come back to achieve my NEWTs. She said she can get me an apprenticeship after school lets out with Scyforre Greenhouses—largest supplier of healing herbs and plants in Europe!” he gushed excitedly 

“That’s wonderful!” she said, turning to enter the cabin.

Neville grabbed her arm. “’Mione, I think you’ve got the wrong cabin—Malfoy’s in that one,” he said, pointing at the door.

“I know. I sat with him this trip,” Hermione smiled kindly, her patience beginning to wear thin.

“Hermione…I know we’re supposed to be intermingling and creating inter-house unity and all that jazz…but it’s _Malfoy_.”

“Yes. And as I recall, it is thanks to him that I am here today. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to pack my belongings before we stop,” she replied, her tone clipped.

Neville shrank a little under her fiery gaze. “Sure. Sorry.”

Hermione entered the cabin and both Slytherin boys were already changed and packing their books and magazines into their bags. Malfoy grabbed the chocolate frog from the window sill and stowed it away. She raised an eyebrow—he hadn’t eaten a bite of what he’d bought.

As they slowed, Theo went to the door. “I’m going to go see if I can find Blaise and Daphne. Want to come and see if Astoria is still as hot for you as ever?”

She watched him carefully, trying to mask the burning curiosity at his answer. He shook his head and she nearly sighed with relief. “No. That’s okay, you go ahead. I’ll see you at dinner.”

The dark-haired wizard looked between the two remaining cabin occupants and gave his friend a knowing smirk. “Dinner, then.”

When he left, Malfoy pulled on his robes over his uniform and glanced her way as he clasped it. “How have you been?” he asked casually.

She shrugged. “Fine, I guess. You?”

He mirrored her shrug. “Same. I guess.”

They both knew they were lying—both of them were anything but fine. But neither knew how to interact with the other just yet. Malfoy crossed and watched as everyone filtered off the train. “I am not looking forward to this.”

Hermione came to stand next to him and she watched as well, a few younger students pointing as they passed. “Neither am I.”

“The Princess,” Malfoy smirked.

“The Pariah,” she shot back, a small smile playing at her lips.

“Have you always been this sassy, or is this a new development as well, along with your wardrobe?” he asked, eyeing her for a moment.

“I think you’ll find I can match you toe-to-tip on most everything, including your snarkiness,” she replied as the last few stragglers strode past.

“You think so, huh?” he chuckled.

“Except, of course, in every class we take—I wipe the floor with you in high marks,” she grinned, opening the door.

“Oh, and Malfoy? Welcome back to Hogwarts,” she said, turning on her heel and striding off the train with a grin on her face.

Malfoy watched her walk away with barely-masked interest and then began making his way to the carriages.

 

o-o-o

 

Any playfulness Hermione had felt on the train when she was alone with Malfoy had been extinguished the moment they entered the Great Hall. Sorting was well underway, but she hadn’t heard any of it. All she could see was the night of the Final Battle. Fred Weasley, Tonks, Lupin, little Colin Creevey, Lavender Brown…

She stared toward the corner where they’d all lain. _Lavender Brown?_ Lavender was killed during the Battle. But the image that came to Hermione’s mind was of the last cheerful vision she’d seen in the scrying mirror—the wedding. Lavender was a bridesmaid in the vision.

Hermione felt her eyes wander to the blond head at the end of the Slytherin table. He was sitting alone, staring at the knotty wood grain in the tabletop. Theo was sitting with his arm around Daphne Greengrass, seemingly oblivious to his friend’s silent anguish. There was a sinking feeling in her chest. The visions weren’t always accurate. What if they never were? What if she was never to have that talk in the grass as they watched the clouds roll past, never to wed him, if they were never to have a sweet baby? 

Malfoy seemed to sense her stare and his eyes flicked up to meet hers. Hermione wished she was skilled at Legilimency so she could get a glimpse into his mind. His eyes, now that he was put into an uncomfortable circumstance, were haunted and he looked years older than eighteen. She broke the stare and turned her attention to Headmistress McGonagall, who was holding up a hardbound book. “…if this interests you, I urge you to come forth as you go to your dorms and take a journal. You can enter your name into the pen-pal pool first thing tomorrow morning. We will match you, Gryffindor with Slytherin and Hufflepuff with Ravenclaw, Sunday morning at breakfast…”

 _Pen-pals?_ Were they going to get paired up to be pen-pals with someone? She glanced over at Malfoy once more and he was running one finger over the rim of his goblet. All throughout dinner she thought of potential spells she could use to ensure they were matched, hardly listening to Ginny and Neville as they spoke aloud to her. She pushed the food around on her plate and sighed. Her visions were inaccurate…the memory of those visions was the only thing that kept her going most days, the only thing that soothed her heart after every row with Ron over the summer, the only true hope she held for the future.

When dinner ended, the Headmistress dismissed everyone except the returning seventh years, “eighth years” she’d called them. Hermione glanced around to see who in her class had returned: herself, Neville Longbottom, Draco Malfoy, Theo Nott, Daphne Greengrass, Pansy Parkinson, Ernie Macmillan, Hannah Abbott, and Terry Boot.

“As you all are adults now, I thought perhaps you would want some privacy? Away from the younger students in your respective Houses?” the Headmistress said, handing each student a small slip of parchment.

“These are the locations and passwords of each of your new dorms. I think you will find the accommodations more than sufficient,” she told them with a small smile.

Hermione looked down at her slip. “ _Third Floor, adjacent to the library. ‘Ferox.’”_

She smiled to herself—Professor McGonagall knew her too well. She flashed the elderly witch a smile of gratitude, to which she received a nod in return. Hermione rose to follow the others out, falling a pace behind Malfoy and Theo. “Sixth floor, next to Professor Slughorn’s office. Where are you?” Theo asked, peeking at the piece of parchment in his friend’s hand.

“Third floor, down the armory corridor,” Malfoy replied.

“That’s too bad. Guess we won’t be sneaking out after curfew too much anymore then. Are you going to do this pen-pal thing? McGonagall thinks it’ll help to find someone we can talk to, to relate to,” Theo asked, grabbing a journal as he walked out.

Malfoy stopped, and Hermione slowed her steps so as to not look like she was eavesdropping. “Who would want to write to a Death Eater? Anyone I got matched with would withdraw from the program immediately,” he said, opening the cover of one of the books curiously.

Hermione reached around him to grab a journal from the adjacent stack. She flipped it open and looked within. Nothing but crisp fresh parchment. “Are you going to do this?” she asked, feigning disinterest.

Theo rapped his knuckles on the cover of his. “I am. But he’s too chicken shit.”

Malfoy glared at him but shook his head slowly in response to her question. She sighed. “Yeah…I’m not looking forward to getting paired with someone who just wants to ask questions about the War and Harry.”

He looked at her and raised an eyebrow, clearing his throat. “What do you say we just pair ourselves up then?” he asked, his voice barely above a mumbling whisper.

It was clear Malfoy expected rejection and she felt a morose sadness fill her heart as she thought about how many more times he was sure to be rejected in this life. The Pariah. “If I promise to get you Harry’s autograph, can we keep the War talk to a minimum?” she teased, and he gave her a look of grateful incredulity.

A smile spread across his face. “I think I can do without the autograph, thanks.”

Hermione laughed and hugged the journal to herself. “I’m on the third floor, by the library. What do you say we conjure up some baskets to hang just outside of our doors? When we have something to share with the other, we’ll drop the journal into the basket. We can disillusion them so that only you and I can see them.”

Malfoy began walking and she fell into step with him, Theo bidding them goodnight as he headed to a separate staircase. “I think that would work. I’m the third floor, in the armory corridor. McGonagall said she’d give us daily prompts as ideas…shall we start with those?” he questioned, the journal tapping against his thigh as he walked.

“I think that would be a safe place…to start,” she answered as they reached the landing of the third floor.

He hesitated on the landing for a brief moment before he pointed down the corridor. “This is my stop.”

He nodded once to her, his silent way of saying good night. She bobbed her head once in response and continued on until she saw a new heavy oak door with her initials carved into the wood. Hermione put her head against it and took a deep breath, waving her wand absently beside her to conjure a basket on the wall next to the door.

Hermione knew she was now going to have to try everything in her power to make those visions of the future a reality.


	2. Chapter 2

The room that Professor McGonagall had prepared for her was more than Hermione could have hoped for. There was a small sitting room with a desk, a couch and oversized armchair and a low coffee table. Along one wall was a counter and a few overhead cabinets, a small sink and a cooling chest. The door leading from the corridor into her sitting room was flanked on either side by bookshelves, already sagging with books of all kinds. Next to the desk was a large window with an old crank-open mechanism, a seat in front where she could read on a pretty day. On the wall opposite the desk, there was a large, intricately carved fireplace. And finally, the fourth wall boasted two more heavy oak doors, no doubt leading into her bathroom and bedroom.

The room was decorated warmly, red and gold Gryffindor accents creating a homey feel but not drowning out the simple beauty of the area. She went to the window and opened it, the warmth of the September afternoon turning cool as the sun went down. She removed her cloak and draped it over the back of the puffy couch as she breathed in the smoky aroma of hundreds of fireplaces going at once. She didn’t light hers—she relished the cool air.

Hermione made her way into the bedroom first and was pleased to find that, while small, it also sported another bookshelf full of books. The bed was large enough for two people, significantly larger than her old dorm bed and draped with a deep burgundy duvet, stitched with gold thread. Crookshanks was already curled up on her bed, having been delivered with her trunk. He stretched one paw toward his mistress lazily, rolling over and closing one eye to feign sleep. There was another door leading into the bathroom and she peeked in—a clawfoot cast iron tub, a basic vanity, and a loo. Simple and perfect.

All in all, the room was different enough from the dorms—it was much more mature and flat-like—but it still had the small touches of Hogwarts to make her feel like she was home once more. She opened her trunk and waved her wand, sending her clothes to their rightful homes. Retrieving an oversized sweater and a pair of leggings, she made her way into the bathroom for a bath.

Hermione sank into the water—hot enough to turn her skin red as a lobster, just the way she liked it—and draped her mass of hair over the side. In the silence of the bathroom, her thoughts turned once more to her visions. She knew that some were accurate—Malfoy had known she was near when he’d fed the peacocks on the lawn at Malfoy Manor. But some were inaccurate. If ever there was a time she was angry at dropping out of Divination, it was now. Scrying was meant to connect her with her Inner Self, but it was also a method of divining the future. So why was Lavender Brown alive in her visions, but dead four months now?

Hermione had thought obsessively about those visions for so long, they almost seemed like they were memories rather than visions of the future. She thought of the way she’d stroked his hair after he’d taken the Mark and she could almost feel the silken locks between her fingers.  She frowned as she thought of the way he looked on the train: handsome, broken, guarded. It thrilled her to no end that he was the one to suggest they be pen-pals—perhaps the vision of him discussing her with Theo was, at least in part, true.

 

o-o-o

 

The pen-pal theme of the day was displayed on a banner in the Great Hall, changing daily. _Introduce yourself._ Hermione tuned out as names were read Sunday over breakfast. She had her match. He was curiously absent at every meal the day before and a quick glance over the Slytherin table indicated that he was not present once more.

Grabbing a few pieces of toast in a cloth napkin, she rose halfway through the pairing up and stalked out. The air inside the castle was drafty and cool, and she hugged her flannel a little closer for warmth. On her way to the library, she diverged from her course and found herself staring at a thick mahogany door with an intricate DM carved into it. He had conjured a basket on the wall, just as she had—black and angular, no-nonsense frills.

“Well, go on then! He’s in there, hasn’t left since he arrived!” one of the suits of armor said from behind her.

She lifted her hand to knock and hesitated for a moment before rapping hard three times. She tried to listen for his voice to call out to her, but all she heard was a muffled rustling. Malfoy opened the door and looked a little shocked seeing her standing there. His eyes roamed her one quick time and he raised an eyebrow. “Did you need something?” he asked slowly, cautiously.

Hermione cleared her throat. “I haven’t seen you in the Great Hall during meal times. I brought you some toast,” she said, holding up the cloth wrapped bread.

He looked at the food curiously and took it from her. “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem. I just wanted to let you know that the theme for the day is ‘Introduce yourself’.”

Malfoy nodded once. “How bland. You know who I am.”

She rolled her eyes. “I think it’s a vague indicator to write a little more in-depth about who you are. 

“I’ll get it to you soon enough. Shall I proofread it? Indent it the proper two fingers?” he teased, leaning against his door frame. 

“Just write, Malfoy,” she laughed.

“Awfully bossy, aren’t you?” he asked, unwrapping the toast and taking a bite.

“Awfully hungry, aren’t you?” she eyed him take a second bite.

“Famished, actually.”

“So why aren’t you eating?” she asked, looking at him as though it were a simple solution.

And to Hermione, it was a simple solution. Hungry? Attend meals in the Great Hall, where there was a cornucopia of food, treats, and pumpkin juice. Malfoy swallowed a bite harshly. “My presence isn’t exactly _desired_.”

“So, what? You’re going to starve from now until June?”

He gave her a look. “No, Granger. I was going to send off in the morning for a few items while I devised a plan to sneak into the kitchens regularly.”

“That’s preposterous,” she said, hugging her own journal to her chest. “Just eat in the Hall. People will talk regardless.”

“Says the Princess to the Pariah.”

“Since when do you care what everyone thinks? You’ve always exuded confidence!” she challenged.

“Since everything they’re saying started being true. And don’t believe everything you think you know about me. Probably none of it is true,” he said, standing up from the door frame. “See you in Potions tomorrow.”

And with that, Malfoy turned and closed the door behind him. Hermione sighed and moseyed to the library to find a book on Divination before returning to her room.

 

o-o-o

 

_3 Sept 1998_

_Malfoy,_

_You said I know who you are already. That would lead me to believe that you assume you know who I am as well. I can promise you that almost everything you think you know about me is also false._

_I am Hermione Granger, this much is absolutely true. Gryffindor. War heroine. Female third of the Golden Trio. Bookworm. Know-it-all._

_But, I’m more than those titles. Titles that I prefer aiming to live up to: fiercely loyal, courageous, knowledgeable, moral, loving._

_I love the feel of a warm summer rain on my skin, but I hate the cold rain and snow of winter. I grew up in metropolitan London, but I much prefer the countryside or oceanside. I love angry Muggle rock music, but I also love classical music as well. I can play the piano but never learned to actually read music. I excel most at Transfiguration, but I prefer Ancient Runes. I’ve always dressed conservatively, but as you noticed, my taste is far more eclectic than boring sweaters and trousers._

_My entire tenure in the Wizarding World, I felt like I needed to project a certain image of myself—conservative, studious, driven. And while I can be all of those things, I can also be spontaneous, outgoing and nonchalant. When I know what I want, I will stop at nothing to achieve my means. The Sorting Hat commented on my ambition, told me I could have done great in Slytherin, had I been able to fit in with the rest of the students more readily. Also suggested Ravenclaw before it saw the courage I didn’t know I had just yet._

_I fear the dark, the unknown factors that lurk in shadows. I sleep with a small flame next to my bed every night, unless my fireplace remains lit. I haven’t had a single night’s sleep, unassisted by Dreamless Draught, since the Final Battle. I buried more friends than I care to think about and I have very few close ones remaining. Without Harry and Ron here, and Ginny leading the Quidditch team and acting as Head Girl, I feel utterly alone._

_I know we’ve not been even remotely close to being friends in the past, but I hope through these letters, we can become better acquainted._

_\--Hermione_

_And, p.s.—Eat in the damn Hall and forget everyone else._

Hermione reread her letter three times, fighting the urge to make corrections to it as she would an assignment. This was no assignment, this was a way to gain insight into the mind of the man that consumed her thoughts. She wanted to treat these letters as a steady stream of consciousness, writing from the heart and staying true to her feelings.

She retrieved her book, _The Art of Divination_ , and spent hours reading up on the intricacies of connecting to one’s Self. After lunch, she finally made her way back to her room. When she saw her door come into view, she stopped in her tracks. Propped in her hanging box, was a black journal identical to her own. 

Hermione nearly ran to her box in excitement and plucked the book from its box. She cracked it open and leaned against the wall outside of her door to read his entry.

 

_3 September 1998_

_Granger,_

_I honestly have no idea why I agreed to do this pen-pal activity. I have a hard time expressing into words what I feel on a daily basis, and even more difficulty when it’s to someone I scarcely know. If you mention the contents of this to anyone, so help me, I will hex your school bag to rip at the seams any time you go to put it over your shoulder. So here goes nothing:_

_I am Draco Malfoy. Pureblood. The single heir to the Malfoy bloodline and fortune. A Slytherin. A Seeker. An arrogant prat. A coward. A Death Eater._

_As much as I wish for a time-turner to turn back to my sixteenth birthday, to refuse to take the Mark, that will never happen. When I was arrested in the Hall after the Final Battle, I told you I had to reap what I’d sown. And, Granger, I am._

_When people see me, they don’t see a Seeker, a budding Potioneer, an insecure man. They see the brand on my arm and they all know who I am—what I am. Death Eater. Murderer. Criminal. That’s why I keep out of the Hall at meals. I am all of those things. I caused Albus Dumbledore’s death, which created a butterfly effect and spurred every death that followed. And everyone knows it. You joke of me being a pariah, but you have no idea. My lifelong friends have turned their backs on me. All except Theo, and he’s found tail to chase to occupy his time._

_It is exceptionally lonely, being Draco Malfoy._

_\--DM_

Hermione felt a sadness well within her and she fought the tears that threatened to fall. If what the mirror had revealed was accurate of his taking of the Mark, he’d never wanted to be a Death Eater. He was just a boy.

She ran her fingers over the page as she slowly walked towards his door, examining the way he wrote on the parchment. His script was neat and elegant, slightly slanting to the left as it would with someone who was left-handed. He pressed hard enough to leave indentations in the pages and she brushed her fingers over it, feeling the ridges in his letters.

The harsh words contrasted with the beautiful script. She refused to believe the words he’d written of himself. He was no longer a Death Eater, even if he had reluctantly joined their ranks. Hermione fingered the word ‘pariah’ just as she stopped outside of his door. She pulled her journal from under her arm and lifted her hand to knock, hesitating. All she wanted was to tell him this wasn’t who he was, that she’d seen how wonderful he really was, that he was worthy of redemption.

But they weren’t friends—far from it, in fact. He was much more pleasant to her in his matured age, but they’d only had a few conversations. Hermione lowered her hand and placed the journal in his box. She didn’t want to overwhelm him with her presence—he hadn’t had months of predicting their future and obsessively thinking of her as she had. 

Hermione turned to go back to her own room and she could have sworn she heard his door click open softly as he retrieved her journal.

 

o-o-o

 

Draco lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling, a low rumbling in his stomach. A glance at his enchanted clock told him that it was well past midnight. His room, a more mature version of a Slytherin dorm, was becoming increasingly stifling with the fire that burned in his black marble fireplace. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and padded to the window, taking a moment to crank it open. He sat against the sill and relished the cool air dancing across his bare back.

He needed to send off for the ingredients needed to make a healthy supply of Dreamless Draught. Being back at Hogwarts only made his nightmares intensify. _I haven’t had a single night’s sleep, unassisted by Dreamless Draught, since the Final Battle._

Granger was being strangely kind to him since their return to Hogwarts. Granted, he had saved her life when Crabbe tried to kill her. But she had testified on his behalf at his trial, effectively saving his life. They were even.

He snorted. Granger. She had always intrigued him. Not because of her looks—she’d always been dreadfully plain—or her immaculate grades, but for her intellect and determination. When he was younger, he had expressed to Theo his desire to befriend her, aching for an intellectual match more than anything.

Theo had warned him that she would want nothing to do with him if he took the Mark and killed Dumbledore. Yet, since the train, she’d been attempting to communicate with him. His nightmares were filled with her screams every night since she’d been tortured in his home but having her close was a soothing balm he hadn’t expected. 

She’d written him from the heart and the words resonated deeply with him. She was lonely, too. Draco rose from his perch at the window and grabbed her journal. Shirtless and sporting only a low-slung pair of pajama pants, he slipped out of his room and peered down the corridors. There wasn’t a soul in sight at this time of night and even the suits of armor were slumbering. He lumbered down toward the library and turned the corner to where her door was. He dropped her book back into the box and retrieved his own and leaned against her door. He slid down the door and sat on the floor, the moonlight filtering through the enchanted stained-glass windows and casting a blue glow over his pale flesh. Though he couldn’t hear her, couldn’t feel her, just knowing that she was in the room brought him unexpected comfort.

_Hermione Granger._ She liked warm rain and could play the piano. She was afraid of the dark—a peculiarity at her age. She wanted to be known for who she truly was, not how the press viewed her. Draco had read her letter to him at least ten times and each time, he’d picked up another subtle hint that he had no blasted clue about who she was.

Draco put his head back against her door and brought his arm up in front of his face. In the pale false moonlight, he could just make out the raised outline on his forearm. That damn skull and snake had been the bane of his existence for two years. It immediately alienated him from the rest, not providing the power and fear of him he’d initially hoped for. It brought nothing but failures, horrors, desperation, and loneliness.

Granger seemed genuinely interested in getting to know him and he had to refrain from rolling his eyes at her signature Gryffindor optimism. She’d been tortured on his floor and nearly killed by his friend’s careless attempt at Fiendfyre, and she still went out of her way to associate with him.

Perhaps in the face of all the negativity, the quirky Muggle-born could become an ally for him.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione didn’t want to do it. But she decided she had no other choice but to visit Professor Trelawney. For all of her faults, she was correct in her telling of the Prophesy between Harry and Voldemort. So, she must have had a little Seer in her. And the books were leaving Hermione with more questions than they answered (typical for such a flimsy subject as _Divination_ , everything was a shade of grey, nothing black and white).

She began to climb the stairs leading up to the Divination classroom after the first class of the day had let out. The students filing past her were seventh year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs and a few smiled widely at her, a few whispered behind hands and a few moved dramatically out of her way. For her part, Hermione stared straight ahead and ignored their gawking.

Luna Lovegood was the last to descend the stairs and she stopped and gave the Gryffindor a genuinely friendly smile. “Hello, Hermione…I didn’t know you were taking Divination again.”

Hermione shook her head. “I’m not, I just had some questions for Professor Trelawney.”

It was then that she noticed the blonde shuffling a deck of oversized cards. “Are those Tarot cards?” she asked curiously.

“We’re beginning to move into cartomancy and Professor Trelawney wanted us to compare and contrast the difference between Telling with playing cards and with Tarot cards…they’re quite pretty, aren’t they?” Luna asked, holding out the deck to show Hermione.

Each card was brightly colored and featured a varying figure and title. They were lovely, she decided. If a bit useless. Luna shuffled them twice more. “Here, pull one and let’s see which calls to you.”

Hermione pursed her lips and when the deck was presented to her with the faces down and fanned out she went to grab one. “No, Hermione. Run your fingers over them until one speaks to you.”

Hermione shuffled impatiently. She had only an hour between classes and Luna was eating up precious time. She humored her, though, as Luna was one of the few people still at Hogwarts that she considered a friend. She used the tips of her fingers to skim the deck, once, twice, thrice. On her third pass, a card twitched beneath her touch and Luna smiled distantly. “Pull it and let’s have a look.”

Hermione slid the card out of the fanned deck and turned it over. _VI The Lovers_. The card was bathed in bright colors and sported a naked couple at the bottom half and an angel ascending from a cloud over them in the top half. She raised an eyebrow at Luna and shrugged.

“Are you a Gemini, Hermione?” Luna asked, peeking at the card in Hermione’s hand.

“No…Virgo." 

“Hmmm…is there a lad in your life?” she tried, looking at Hermione with her massive silvery-blue eyes.

Hermione’s eyes shot up to hers and her mouth dropped open. Draco was a Gemini, born the fifth of June. Luna smiled a knowing, genuine upturn of the lips. “This is a powerful card…I’d suggest you read up on it a little more. I could lend you my textbook if you’d like.”

Hermione nodded dumbly. “Sure…I’ll have it to you tomorrow?”

Luna retrieved the book from her bag and tapped the card in her hand, duplicating it. She took the duplicate. “You keep that one. It called to you for a reason. Didn’t change the energy of the deck too much.”

She spoke of the cards as though they had emotion, as though they had a personality. Hermione scrunched her nose at the thought of something so fanciful. Luna shuffled her deck a few more times. “I’ve got to be going. I’m supposed to meet Neville in the greenhouses before class.”

“Sure. Thank you, Luna,” Hermione said as the blonde floated airily down the spiral staircase.

Hermione waited for a beat before she nearly ran down the stairs to her room. She had killed half an hour giving into Luna’s whimsies, so she tossed her bag down and sat at the desk. She found the page she was in search of quickly:

_The Lovers_

_Card Six of the Major Arcana_

_Zodiac Correspondence: Gemini_

_Elemental Correspondence: Air_

_Planetary Correspondence: Mercury_

_Upright Presentation: Romantic relationship, harmony, soulmates and kindred spirits, desire, sexual compatibility, shared moral values, choices, attraction, mutual empowerment, [during retrograde] miscommunication_

_Reversed Presentation: Untrustworthy, imbalance, detachment, loss of love, conflict_

_Description: A naked couple, representative of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, occupy the bottom half of the card. A flaming tree, with twelve flames representing the twelve zodiacs and symbolic of the fiery passion needed to make a choice and cultivate a relationship, rests behind Adam. The Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, complete with a serpent, rests behind Eve—humanity’s greatest folly and a descent into the temptation of carnal pleasure and sensuality. The relationship will begin pure and a strong bond will be forged to withstand all hardships along the way. The Angel of the air is Raphael—symbolic of communication and the foundation of a relationship. The woven grapevines of the archangel’s crown are a sign of fertility and sexual health. As with the twins of the zodiacal Gemini, he brings balance and harmony with his blessing over the couple. There will be a powerful marriage of two strongly opposing forces…_

The excerpt went on to describe the meaning of the card’s placement on a spread and Hermione snapped the book shut. Was this card symbolic of her and Draco? She had drawn it upright and every meaning behind an upright presentation appealed to her with regards to the blond wizard. Mercury was far from retrograde at that moment.

She picked the card up from the desktop and ran her fingers over the drawing, watching as the lovers walked to one another and caught each other in an embrace before retaking their positions and replaying the scene once more. Each aspect of the card held meaning and she knew nothing of it. She dropped her forehead into her hand as she stared at the bright yellows of the card.

The scrying mirror had been a disappointment—she’d placed her trust in it and it had gotten her nowhere. The visions were faulty and unreliable. But there was a reason this card—of the seventy-eight cards that comprised Luna’s deck—jumped out at her. Hermione placed Luna’s book on the desk and grabbed her Potions book, tucking the card into it like a bookmark as she strode from her room.

As Hermione made her way down to the dungeons for Potions, her head was clouded with thoughts of the meaning behind pulling the card. She wondered when she’d began placing hope into such dalliances. But it was present—a glimmer of hope in her heart.

She strode into the Potions classroom, making a beeline to sit next to Ginny at the table closest the window. In the back opposite corner of the room sat the object of her current dangerous obsession. He was stiff in his chair, his hands folded on the desk before him. Hermione caught Malfoy’s eye and she raised the corner of her mouth. He had been exiting the Great Hall as she entered for breakfast, so she knew he had eaten breakfast at least.

Malfoy didn’t smile in return, but he did bob one eyebrow in amused salutation. Hermione thought about the theme of the day: _Why?_ Why, what? She had no idea yet what she was going to write about. She grabbed a handful of her hair and pushed it back over her head distractedly, unable to actually run her fingers through the mass. She could feel his eyes following her and she smiled at the floor as she slid into the chair next to Ginny.

A few Slytherins filtered in and Theo took a seat next to Daphne, in front of Malfoy. Pansy was the last to enter and she huffed when she saw that the only seat left was next to him. “Fantastic, so I get to work alongside the cowardly murdering blood-traitor all year?” she said, her voice clearly indicating she wished to draw an audience.

Hermione turned in her chair to look at the scene unfolding. Malfoy wilted slightly, his face pinkening. “Can you please keep your voice down?” he whispered forcefully, still audible in the near deafening silence of the room.

“Why, when she’s only speaking the truth? Finally seen what everyone else has known for years, eh, Parkinson?” a Gryffindor boy said from the back of the room.

“You’re out of line, Parkinson,” Theo barked, and he pointed a finger at the boy, “And you, I don’t need magic to beat your arse.”

“So, Nott, you’re on his side then? Have you forgotten that Crabbe’s burned body rests only a few floors above your head?” Pansy said, crossing her arms.

“He didn’t kill Crabbe,” Theo retorted.

“That’s not what Goyle said,” Pansy spat, glaring at Malfoy.

_“Crabbe,”_ Hermione started, unable to watch the embarrassment paint Malfoy’s face any longer, the defeated set of his shoulders as everyone in the classroom stared, “was a fool and cast Dark Magic he couldn’t control.”

Pansy rounded on her. “No one,” she forced through clenched teeth, “was talking to you, Mudblood.”

“Well, considering only two people currently sitting in this room were actually present, and I was the second person, perhaps you should only speak of what you know,” Hermione replied, rising from her chair as her voice rose.

“Hermione,” a Gryffindor girl she recognized as Carmella Gray began, “you don’t have to take up for him. He’s made his bed, now he needs to lie in it. He was a _Death Eater_!”

“Shut up,” Hermione spat at her. “No one in this room has any idea what transpired in that room, but Draco and me. And it’s no one’s business.”

Draco sat silent and looked to be hoping the floor would open up and swallow him whole. Why wasn’t he fighting back? He had never shied away from a duel or a chance to assert himself before.

Theo rose from his chair and slammed the one next to Malfoy back. “You’d better watch your back, Parkinson.”

Pansy sat next to a horrified looking Daphne. Professor Slughorn waddled in just as Ginny was pulling Hermione into a seated position. “What the hell was that all about?” she asked.

Hermione tugged her arm free. “That cow has no idea what she’s talking about.”

 

o-o-o

 

Malfoy strode out of the classroom before the bell had even stopped chiming. Hermione knew he wouldn’t go to lunch after the embarrassing incident in Potions. She marched to his room and rapped in quick succession on the thick mahogany. He opened the door and stood, filling the doorway and towering over her short stature. “Yes, Granger?”

“A ‘thank you’ is too much to ask for, I suppose?” she said with a small, anxious chuckle.

He sighed and dropped his arms from his chest to shove his hands in his pockets. “I don’t expect you to defend me every time someone decides to have a go at me.”

She looked up at him and fought the urge to run her fingers along his jaw as she had in her visions. “Why didn’t you fight back?” she asked softly.

  
“Everyone has made up their minds. What would be the point?” he shrugged. “Fighting back would only culminate in problems, and I am the easy scapegoat, whether or not I started the fight. I’d rather just keep my head down and ignore it.”

“It bothers you,” she observed, taking in the slump of his usually pin-straight shoulders and guarded set of his jaw and eyes,

“I’ll get over it,” he shrugged once more.

She studied his features for a moment longer before she averted her eyes under his gaze. “Did you want to come in, Granger?” he asked, jabbing a finger over his shoulder uncertainly.

“Into—into your room?” she stuttered. 

“Well…it’s a small common room,” he said, stepping out of the doorway to reveal the room behind him.

Hermione stepped around him and into a room, not unlike her own in structure but opposite hers in every other way. While her sitting room was soft honey-colored oak furniture and cloth covered, cozy couches, his was dark mahogany and black leather. Her area was brightly lit with soft warm light, but his was dim and bathed in an eerie green light emitted from a large chandelier. But one thing was the same—he had bookshelves overflowing with books of all shapes, sizes, and subjects.

He went to his small kitchen counter, black marble to her white, and retrieved a small jar of homemade peanut butter and a spoon. He brought her a spoon as well and sat on the end of his couch, drawing his legs up. He had removed his shoes to reveal emerald socks and Hermione was intrigued by the relaxed contrast of him here to him in front of others.

  
“I penned a few questions into your journal,” he mentioned, scooping a spoon of peanut butter from the jar. “In response to your entry.”

She sat on the chair and took some of the spread before he capped it and placed it on the table. “I put some in yours as well.”

“I don’t much like ‘why’ as a theme. Why don’t we answer the questions tonight instead? I’ll answer the ‘why’ when I’m ready,” he suggested.

“Sounds good to me,” she answered, her mind wandering to the card tucked into her Potions book.

“Can I ask you a question, now?” he looked at her.

She licked a bit of peanut butter from the corner of her mouth. “Okay,” she said slowly, hesitantly.

“The peacocks.”

“I didn’t hear a question,” she commented.

“You’re avoiding an answer,” he mused.

Hermione hadn’t expected him to bring this up so soon. When she had seen a vision of him feeding the peacocks at Malfoy Manor, while the War raged around them, she’d wiped his tears. He had felt her presence, as he confirmed when he saw her at Easter when she’d been captured by Snatchers. What was she going to say to him? That she turned to Divination in a pathetic attempt at locating Ron Weasley and instead fell madly in love with him? Not likely.

“I’ll tell you about the peacocks when _I’m_ ready,” she mirrored his earlier sentiment.

He sighed and closed his eyes, putting his head back on the couch. “Why are you being so… _nice_?”

Hermione stared at him as he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. “What do you mean?”

“Crabbe nearly killed you. I was horrible to you. My aunt…" 

He didn’t need to finish that statement. She knew instantly that he was thinking of her torture at the hands of his deranged relative. “But you lessened her assault on me. You kept me from experiencing how horrible it could have been.”

Malfoy remained quiet for a few minutes and Hermione began to feel uncertain about whether he wanted her to be around anymore. She grabbed their two spoons and washed and put them away, nervous energy flowing through her. “We should get to class,” his deep voice rumbled behind her.

o-o-o

 

_What is it about the warm summer rain you enjoy so?_

_I don’t understand your sentiments about the dark…how can you be afraid of the dark at your age?_

_Perhaps, if you had been sorted into Slytherin, things could have been different…_

Those were the three entries Malfoy had written in her journal. Of everything she had written, those were the three points he chose to focus on. That concept piqued her curiosity in and of itself. Something joyous, something sad and something beyond comprehension.

_4 Sept 1998_

_Malfoy,_

_I hope this reaches you in better spirits than you were in this morning. I know things are difficult and I practically see you rolling your eyes at my Gryffindor optimism, but it will get better._

_Summer rain…there’s just nothing like it. The clouds battle and burst, releasing a refreshing shower upon the earth. Most children fear the moments when thunder rattles the windows, but I never did. I was always intrigued by the rumbles and flashes of light. It was the best time to read by flashlight under a blanket fort. When a sporadic shower would spring up and catch us off guard, my mother and I would skip through mud puddles and get absolutely filthy. But I had fun and the sound of my mother’s laughter as we played was worth it._

_It’s not the dark I fear—it’s what lurks in the dark. It started when I went with Harry to search for Horcruxes last summer. We feared being discovered every moment. There was a time, on Christmas Eve, when we nearly did get caught. We were nearly killed by Nagini and since that night, I cannot fall asleep without seeing the horrible decaying individual that he had used to lure us there. I suppose it would be different if I wasn’t alone in the dark. If I had someone to help absorb a little of that darkness, perhaps it wouldn’t seep in so readily._

_What would have been different, Malfoy?_

_\--Hermione_


	4. Chapter 4

_Slytherins take care of their own—Muggle-borns included. I could have protected you more readily if you were one of us, and not latched onto Potter. I’m sure my foul disposition has left a nasty stain on your memories of Hogwarts. My father hated you more for being a friend to Potter than for your blood-status, and I had expectations placed on me to live up to—not that it’s an excuse. What I did and said was despicable, but I never wanted to hurt you. How could you possibly be inferior if you bested me in every class?_

_You would never have been put in so much danger, never would have been dragged into my home and tortured by my aunt. Potter and Weasley were careless in the means they executed to achieve their ends. Not that you need a protector, but they should have done a better job—it was Potter who got you captured to begin with!_

_I could continue and tell you exactly how we’d have spent our time had you been sorted into Slytherin, but I digress. It is neither here nor there. All I can do is apologize at every opportunity about the way things did turn out and hope that one day, you can forgive me._

_-Draco_

Hermione read and reread the entry into her pen-pal journal four times before she pushed off of the wall and headed down to breakfast. Malfoy had given thought to what would have happened if she had been sorted into Slytherin. She had no idea that there were Muggle-borns even sorted into the House—she’d always assumed it was a Pureblood's club. Her eyes skimmed over the Slytherin table and there wasn’t a single student isolated or left out. Apparently, the only Mudblood they had problems with was her. Her eyes reached the end of the table, where Malfoy sat, spooning porridge into his mouth, Theo to his side with the Greengrass sisters. The others appeared to be in a conversation, but he was quiet, smiling politely once when directly spoken to.

Hermione walked past the Gryffindor table and sat next to Luna at the Ravenclaw table to return her book. “Good morning, Hermione! Did you find the answers you were looking for?” she asked, eating a bite of strawberry and a spoonful of watery porridge.

“Kind of. Luna, do you know much about scrying mirrors?” Hermione asked, looking around to make sure no one else was listening.

“Sure. Scrying is a powerful tool in Divination. Why the sudden interest?” Luna asked, raising one eyebrow in curiosity.

“I had a mirror that I used a few times. I initially used it to try and locate Ron, but it showed me…someone entirely different. I saw a future with this individual and…then I realized after the War that it showed me something inaccurate,” Hermione explained in a rush, keeping it vague.

Luna smiled and looked over at the Slytherin table, smiling widely when she caught sight of Malfoy glancing briefly in their direction. “The Gemini.”

Hermione looked at Luna incredulously. “How did you know?”

“I, too, enjoy scrying…though I prefer natural water as the surface. After our conversation yesterday, I went to the Black Lake and you and Malfoy showed up. A wedding in a vineyard…how curious,” Luna said, smiling.

“Was Lavender Brown there?” Hermione asked, her tone bordering on demanding.

“No. Should she have been?”

“I had the same vision. But she was with Ron, one of the bridesmaids,” Hermione said, gesturing to the wall where the photos of the fallen hung in memoriam.

“Divination, in general, is meant to connect you with your Inner Self in order to more readily read your future, or the future of others if you so choose. I would imagine underlying, repressed feelings of envy or anger at Ron’s relationship with Lavender were still lingering in your subconscious,” Luna responded expertly.

“I don’t understand.”

“The vision’s content itself is a truth of how the future will play out. But some of the details can be skewed by underlying factors in your mind.”

Hermione was floored. Luna, who was always quirky and believed in strange creatures and government conspiracies, was also a rational and intelligent Ravenclaw when it came to school. She clearly believed in what she was saying. _And she’d seen the same vision!_

Hermione couldn’t help it when her eyes darted to the Slytherin table. Malfoy was looking down at the table, a deep scowl on his face. If what she said was true, if what they’d both seen was true, _she was going to marry Draco Malfoy!_  “You should go talk to him,” Luna’s pleasant, airy voice broke through Hermione’s reverie.

“Luna, I can’t just stride up to him at the Slytherin table. He’s not interested in me in the same way.”

“Perhaps, not yet. But he will be madly in love with you one day,” the blonde smiled kindly as the morning post arrived.

To Hermione’s surprise, a tawny owl sat on the Gryffindor table where she typically sat beside Ginny. It looked straight at her and gave a rather robust and indignant hoot. Hermione thanked Luna and went to the owl. She nipped Hermione’s finger as the brunette untied the strings and she sucked at the blood coming from her finger. Ginny looked over at the owl. “I guess Harry sent you a letter, too! Ruddy bird wouldn’t let me untie it for you.”

The envelope was large and housed a letter and a folded old piece of parchment she recognized as the Marauder’s Map. She unfolded the letter and smiled.

_‘Mione,_

_Or is it Lady Malfoy, now? Kidding, kidding. I’m just checking in on you. And look what I happened to find in the bottom of my trunk? Doesn’t do me much good anymore, but I figure you might like to keep a lookout when you’re snogging Malfoy in the library. Training has gone well so far—I feel right in my element here. We miss you. Let us know when your first Hogsmeade trip is and we’ll try to meet you. Ron sends his love as well._

_Love, Harry_

Hermione lit the letter on fire quickly before anyone else could read it and stowed the Map away for later use. Ron had told Harry about their conversation once they’d escaped Malfoy Manor. At first, Harry had been angry, confused, even felt slightly betrayed. But once Ron had extricated himself from the room, and Hermione had been able to speak rationally to Harry, he had calmed and listened to her as she tearfully told him of the visions, of her childhood crush. 

Harry, ever the picture of awkwardness had tried to play Devil’s Advocate as he watched her openly sob over whether or not Draco Malfoy was hurt severely by the cuts from chandelier glass. _“Er—he is incredibly intelligent and quick with his wand. You’d be able to talk about…Ancient Runes and such…”_ he’d said.

After the War had ended, and Hermione had obsessed over the papers every day of his trial, it was announced that he would return to complete his education at Hogwarts. Harry, unlike imperceptible Ron, had known that day that Hermione would never accept the Ministry’s offer to waive her NEWTs scores. He knew she yearned to see Malfoy, to have time with him that _wasn’t_ ruined by Ron’s temper and jealousy. Hermione suspected that Ginny had spoken to him, as well.

Harry had taken to picking at her relentlessly for the remainder of the summer, pretending to straighten slightly when she entered the room and had taken to bowing to “Lady Malfoy” whenever she stood to leave the room. Hermione had punched him in the arm and scowled, secretly thrilling that the War, and Narcissa’s willingness to help him, had matured Harry enough to accept what Ronald Weasley simply could not.

“I can’t believe he gave you the Map. I’m his girlfriend!” Ginny said incredulously.

“Well, in Harry’s defense, he thinks I’m going to use it to avoid getting caught out with Malfoy,” Hermione said quietly. 

Ginny smirked. “And just why would you do that, when you each have an oh-so-cozy private suite, with beds big enough for two?”

Hermione coughed and sputtered up the sip of pumpkin juice she’d just taken and looked in his direction form under eyelashes. Malfoy was retrieving his bag and stalked toward the door to the Great Hall. A fourth-year Gryffindor made sure to shout, _“Murderer!”_ as he walked between the two tables.

Malfoy turned around, mouth open and ready to spit something back, thought better of it and turned to leave again. He was trying to be the bigger man. Unfortunately, with both the Gryffindors and Slytherins against him, he was receiving abuse from both sides. “Tell me, Malfoy, will your father hear about this?” said a sixth year Slytherin, to which Parkinson guffawed loudly.

“How could he, from his cell in Azkaban?” another Gryffindor shouted, and both tables laughed loudly.

Malfoy put a hand up over his head, giving them all a rude hand gesture and continued out, refusing to say anything more, though Hermione could tell by the slump in his shoulders that it was all wearing him thin. She looked back at the Gryffindors, who were laughing and pleased with themselves. She cursed their bench to break and they all tumbled to the floor, one of them grasping at air and accidentally pulling a vat of hot porridge down with them. The four shrieked in pain as the scalding thick porridge splashed over them. Hermione smiled to herself, hoping that it would cause them to blister and suffer through a particularly painful trip to Madam Pomfrey.

Hermione looked straight ahead at Luna Lovegood’s head as the blonde turned around and jerked her head toward the door, urging Hermione to go talk to him. Hermione shook her head, her nerves eating at her as Professor Slughorn rushed past her to tend to the four Gryffindor idiots who were prying themselves up, sobbing about how painful their fall had been. What would she say to him? They weren’t exactly friends, and she couldn’t keep invading his space every time he walked away from conflict. He’d told her he didn’t expect her to fight his battles for him—didn’t expect her to, or didn’t want her to? He was likely making his way to their shared Herbology class.

Hermione sighed and stood to make her way to Herbology, letting Ginny know she’d see her there. She caught sight of him, a fair distance ahead of her, but made no real attempt at catching up to him. She was way out of her element, chasing after men. It had taken her seven years of dancing around the subject to even consider Ron, though that was squashed the moment he ran out on them.

Malfoy was walking brusquely toward the greenhouses, the other students out on the grounds giving him a wide berth as he strode past. She saw he had a book in his hand and he opened it and retrieved a purple slip of something from within, looking at it and running a finger over it. He shook his head and snapped the book shut, his gait slowing slightly as he stowed the book in his satchel.

She stared straight at the back of his head, falling back even further so as to not gain too much momentum and catch up with him. He would be embarrassed again and she wanted him to have a few minutes to himself. Something white caught her eye, floating in her line of vision on a gust of wind that came out of nowhere on the warm September day.

Hermione reached up and grabbed the object from the air and stopped in her tracks. An albino peacock feather. She looked up at his back, retreating even further from her. He hadn’t dropped it, she’d been watching him. No, Hermione had watched as this feather was carried in on the breath of the wind. But where had it come from? The only place she’d ever seen an albino peacock was at Malfoy Manor. 

She ran the feather between her fingers as she continued on, bringing it to tickle the underside of her chin. There was something at work here, some kind of magic larger than she could yet comprehend. Everything happened for a reason, and the Gods had brought her a sign. She quickly realized that she needed to devise a plan on how to win the affections of one blond wizard. The powers that be clearly approved.

Hermione stowed the feather in her bag, thinking to herself that it would make a beautiful quill to write her pen-pal letters with. Perhaps the underlying magic in the quill could give a little added something to the words of her letters. She entered the first greenhouse and was greeted by a warm, damp earthen climate. Malfoy was already there, removing his robes and stowing them in his bag. She could tell he toyed with wanting to roll his sleeves up but decided against it. He had yet to notice her, and she cast a cooling charm over him.

Malfoy’s brow furrowed and he looked up. His eyes narrowed at her and she gave him a quick wrinkle of the nose and a wide smile. He smiled slightly and turned away to retrieve his Herbology textbook. Hermione removed her own robes and stood at a table opposite him. She decided that before she would swoop in and make her move—unprepared and nervous—she was going to study him, just as she did every other challenging matter in life. She needed to be better prepared and confident.

And Hermione found there was no time like the present to begin. They were utterly alone in the greenhouse, the other students and Professor Sprout not due for another fifteen minutes. He had his text out on the tall workbench, his stool angled forward on two legs as he leaned into the table and read over what they were likely to be studying that day.

His normally pin straight back slouched forward as he read. He tried, unsuccessfully to unstick the page from the next and had to lick his fingertip to turn the page. The simple act made Hermione bite her bottom lip—he had her full concentration as he read. She could barely see his side profile, but she saw his lips move slightly as he read, not quite forming words, but twitching. Curious. How had she never noticed that he did that? Had she ever looked?

Whatever he was reading made him pause and peer into the glass pot before him, a small tangle of herbs inside catching his attention as he lifted it to look inside. He looked from the pot to his text, running his finger over the page as he read and alternated between the book and pot. He placed the glass back down and snapped his book shut, leaning forward to place his forehead in his hand. He rubbed his temples and took a deep breath and exhaled before he turned his head to glance over his shoulder in her direction. She quickly examined her nail beds, finding nothing more fascinating in the world than her chipping blood colored polish. 

She thought of the peacock feather in her bag and her cheeks began to burn. She had a lot of work to do if she was going to figure out how to woo Draco. 

o-o-o

That night, Hermione couldn’t sleep. She’d tossed and turned, cursing herself for not taking a sleeping potion when she had still had enough time. A little after midnight, her fire finally burned itself out and she sat up in bed, quickly lighting the flame on her nightstand. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and rubbed her tired eyes.

She had been fighting with herself all night not to pull the Marauder’s Map. To stare at his tiny dot as it moved about within the confines of his room. But she was rapidly losing the battle. For reasons Hermione couldn’t quite understand, she knew that if she could just see his name pacing around his room—or, at this time of night, stationary in bed—it would bring her comfort.

When she’d finally lost the battle of wills within her own mind, she got up and went to the top drawer of her chest of drawers. Nestled under her underwear and socks was the wrinkled and faded parchment. She pulled it out and sat on the edge of her bed, her tiny flame in a jar lighting the room enough for her to see. _“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,”_ she said, tapping the Map.

She began unfolding it as the greetings from the Marauders appeared and her eyes traveled to the third floor. She looked down the armory hall and found a new room had been illustrated, a simple ‘DM’ labeling it. But, with a frown, she realized his dot was not within. Hermione looked back up at the clock on her wall—it was nearing one in the morning, where could he possibly be? Was this like the Room of Requirement—not giving up the identities of those within? Her eyes traveled down the third floor to where her room was, and she nearly fell off the bed at the sight of the room labeled ‘HG’.

She saw her own dot sitting in the room where her own bed was, near the window. But just beyond, in the hall just outside where her door would be, was a dot labeled ‘Draco Malfoy.’ Hermione stared at it for a long while, thinking he was just retrieving her journal and leaving his own. But she stared and stared at the dot and it never moved, even a minute amount. Hermione padded softly from her room and through her sitting room. She reached a hand out to open the door but realized that he was sitting out there for a reason. He hadn’t knocked, hadn’t called out to her.

Hermione put her hand back down to her side and sat criss-cross in front of the door. She sat back gently, hoping he wouldn’t feel the door rock with her weight against it. She could feel the gentle hum of his magic just beyond the oak, and she closed her eyes. It brought her comfort.

o-o-o 

Draco felt the door shake slightly, a weight pressed on it against his back. He didn’t know how she knew, but he was certain Granger knew he was on the other side. He could feel the soft vibrations of magic coming from the other side of the door, the only two people on the entire floor at this time of night. He allowed the feeling of the magic coursing through the girl he’d once called inferior soothe him as he closed his eyes and breathed evenly.


	5. Chapter 5

It had been nearly two weeks since Hermione had put into effect her plan to figure Draco Malfoy out enough to woo him—she called it Operation Milk and Honey, after the splash of milk and two spoons of honey he put in his tea each morning. In that time, she had become slowly obsessed with him. She was worse than Harry had been in sixth year. She stared at him during meals—when he showed up—during class as he concentrated during Charms or Transfiguration, at his dot on the Marauder’s Map. 

But Hermione’s favorite thing to do was to watch him in the library. He had taken her usual desk in the back corner, hidden from most prying eyes. She would have been angry had it been anyone else that had stolen her sanctuary, but she knew he needed the privacy much more than she.

Her thoughts were slowly changing the longer she watched him. For instance, the color black had always reminded her of funerals. She’d worn her shapeless black mourning dress for the entirety of the summer, attending burials, pyres, and memorials hosted by the Ministry. The color black had brought along the sound of wailing and angry shouting and the vision of the Weasley brothers carrying the fallen twin in his casket.

But her memories of the summer and how sharp and hurtful it was to see the sea of black mourners were slowly being replaced. Every night after class, Malfoy went into his room, seemingly showered and changed into something more comfortable—a black cashmere sweater or pullover and a pair of black trousers. After dinner, he made his way to the library to work. Though they both had dorms, she suspected he, like she, enjoyed having books readily available to assist him. He worked with parchment and textbooks spread out before him, his quill scratching furiously as he wrote an essay or took notes.

Malfoy’s library time was her favorite time to watch him, assisted by a strong Disillusionment Charm. He let his guard down more than any other time, with no one around to see him or harass him. He was clearly still ashamed of his Mark—he never pulled his sleeves back in class or at meals. But when he was alone in the library—or so he thought—he’d pull the sleeves of those sweaters back. With the Horcruxes and Voldemort’s chances of returning truly destroyed, his Mark was fading a little more with each day. At his trial, when he’d had to show the Wizengamot, it had been an angry red outline. But now it was a faint pink trace and Hermione suspected by Christmas it would be a white outline against his already milky skin.

Oh Merlin, his skin. One of her favorite things about his all-black wardrobe was how perfectly the darkness contrasted with the creamy white of his flesh. It gave him a dangerous edge, a sexy mysteriousness that she desperately wanted to delve into. From two aisles over and across the stacks, she could see him where he sat and she marveled at the way his hair shined in the light, like a beacon drawing her to him. It was a little longer this year, but he kept it neatly brushed and parted, never a hair out of place. On Tuesday, he’d brought his cauldron down to finish the bone regenerating potion they were studying. The steam rising from the cauldron’s surface had gotten to his hair, making it a little fluffier than usual. It fell from its brushed state and fell across one side of his forehead, caressing his eyes. He ran a hand through it absently and she bit her lip to keep from groaning right then and there.

She had watched him in fascination as he worked on his Potions assignment—she knew that was his favorite subject and she had never had the privilege of working with him in class. Not that it would have ever been a privilege before she developed this massive, slightly voyeuristic obsession with him. He would jot little notes here and there in the text—noting the color, texture, and smell of what he was creating, she thought. His lips moved slightly when he read, an eyebrow quirked as he read and reread instructions, verifying that he was, in fact, mixing the potion correctly. When it was finished, completed to perfection as she could tell even from two aisles away, he gave a small, satisfied smirk to himself.

On Thursday, he’d been working on Ancient Runes, trying to complete an essay on sigils of ancient Germanic tribes. He rose from his desk and she lifted a book in front of her, creating a screen from the outside world and began to write her own essay. Hermione watched as he went to a shelf filled with books on runes and scanned the titles. His fingers grazed over the spines and she silently wondered what those fingers would feel like grazing over _her_ spine. Would his skin feel warm to the touch? Or would he feel as icy as the white marble his skin mimicked? When he leaned up to retrieve a book from the highest shelf, his sweater rode up in back and there was a thin strip of milky skin visible between the hem of his shirt and his black dragon skin belt. All she wanted out of life in that moment was to run her fingertips over that strip of skin, to find out if he was made up of fire or ice.

On Friday, after they had stayed up all night on opposite sides of her door, she was exhausted. He seemed at ease and alert and she realized that he must keep a steady supply of Pepper-Up and sleeping draughts at the ready. Malfoy sat at his desk that was once her desk, their Arithmancy homework and text spread out before him. She admired that he was in the library on a Friday night, but given his current pariah status, she supposed he didn’t have a whole lot of other options.

His brow was furrowed in concentration and she could tell he was having some difficulty navigating the numerology. She had kept away from him while she investigated him. The only real contact she’d had was through their pen-pal letters, and they had been brief on his part. Since he’d confessed to her what he thought would have happened if she was a Slytherin, he had clammed up and written no more than necessary to answer her questions or the prompt theme of the day. 

Every night, without fail, he came to sit by her door around twelve-thirty. She would join him and she knew that he had to be aware of her presence, though neither had ever spoken of it. If she could feel the vibrations of magic being put out by him, he could surely feel hers. Hermione let him sit there as long as he wished, never leaving first. Once, she suspected he fell asleep at the door because it was near five in the morning when he finally left. She ached to open the door and talk to him, but she knew he needed to be the one to initiate that contact.

Hermione watched as he wrote and rewrote and refigured the Arithmancy problem three times. She broke the Disillusionment Charm with a quiet whisper and made her way over to him, lest her bravery fail her. She had to be near him, without a wedge of heavy oak separating them. 

She slung her bag over her shoulder and walked to where he sat. He looked up when she purposely dropped her book. He raised an eyebrow. “As clumsy as ever, I see,” he remarked, his face showing no emotion whatsoever.

Hermione faltered a bit, hanging back and uncertain of whether she wanted to sit with him now. Perhaps he was still in need of space. Malfoy looked up at her and there was a tug at one corner of his mouth. “I’m teasing you, Granger. Sit down,” he told her with a gesture toward the empty seat next to him, and it felt more like a command than a suggestion.

“I was looking for _Arithmancy, the Complete Works of Billard Bubbulo_ but I saw that you already had it on the table,” she said, only a tiny white lie.

“Did you understand that lecture today?” he asked, frowning as he looked at where he’d tried to work the same problem multiple times.

“It was a tricky one,” she told him as a sign of solidarity, though she’d had no trouble with it. “What you need to realize with the Chaldean method is that the number nine isn’t the factor. After that, this becomes much simpler.”

She took the quill from his hand to correct his work—he was definitely left-handed—and brushed against his skin. It sent a flutter into her heart and she realized his skin was unquestionably warm. And Merlin…so _soft_. How was it possible that a man who had flown a broom his entire life could have such soft hands? Ron’s hands were calloused and rough. Even Harry’s were worn from gripping a broom. But Malfoy’s were softer than even her own and she made a mental note to buy a large supply of moisturizing lotion on her first Hogsmeade trip.

She looked at the texts he had, not finding the one she needed to properly explain the issue to him, so she stood and headed for the Arithmancy section. The book she needed was on the top shelf, and she’d left her wand at the table. Her wandless magic was a little rusty and she stared at the book for a moment before standing on her toes to reach up for it. There was warmth against her back as a pale hand shot out in front of her and retrieved the book, a hand on her back to let her know he was retrieving it.

When she bounced down off her tiptoes, he smirked down at her. “Were you trying to reach this?” he asked, leaning against the stacks arrogantly, as though his height were something to be proud of.

Her back felt instantly cooler without his hand, without the firm feel of him as he brushed against her. How had she ever thought he’d feel icy? He was cozy, like a fire that burned brightly. Weren’t snakes supposed to be cold-blooded?

“Yes, that’s the one,” she replied, placing a hand on her hip.

“I never noticed how incredibly short you are,” he remarked, flipping through the book as he refused to hand it over.

“I’m five feet, two inches. That’s only short when compared to freakishly tall blokes like yourself,” she retorted.

“Five-two. That’s _fun sized_ ,” he replied, handing her the book with a smirk.

Hermione blushed at the implications of what he said and he must have realized the sexual connotations then, because a light pink spread across his cheeks, even as he held his chin high. She cleared her throat. “Shall we?” she said, gesturing toward the table.

She led the way and sat and he came around her side to sit, so close her heart managed to wedge itself in her throat. She tried not to think of how attractive a blush was on his cheeks as they slowly returned to normal. She worked on solving the Arithmancy problem and he leaned forward, his head resting on his fist as he looked at the parchment and her face as she spoke. “See, it’s that simple!”

Malfoy turned his focus to her face now, taking his quill back from her. “You’re brilliant, you know that? I’m willing to bet you are the only person in class who could figure that out.”

Hermione smiled satisfactorily at his praise. He sat up straight and quirked an eyebrow as he stretched, exposing some of that milk-white flesh of his abdomen. Not a lot, just a little peek, but it was enough to make her bite her lip. There was that tantalizing contrast of white skin to black clothing. She turned her eyes to the window, trying to still her thoughts, but the sky beyond was a deep inky black that only drew her into his mysterious web once more. “Today’s theme is _dreams_. Are we actually going to write about dreams, or are we going to stray today?” he asked, beginning to pack his bag.

“Oh—I’ve already written mine,” she told him.

“Ah…so dreams it is. Tell me, did you write about anything _scandalous?_ ” he asked.

Was he flirting with her? His personality was naturally charming and effortless, but she wondered if he was flirting with these innuendos or if it was how he always spoke and she never realized. She stood as well, retrieving her own bag and a few of the texts he’d borrowed from shelves. “Oh, no. The scandalous dreams don’t come until part two. You’ll have to wait another night for those,” she replied, figuring she would play his game.

When Hermione bent down to stow a book on the lowest shelf, she paid no mind that her Muggle skirt had ridden up to show her upper thighs, the tops of her thigh-high tights, until it was too late. When she stood upright once more, she could have sworn she caught Malfoy looking away, a little more color to his cheeks. “That’s really a shame. I’d love to find out what keeps the Golden Girl up at night.” 

Hermione wanted to scream, _YOU, you complete dolt!_ But she refrained. What was he playing at? He knew she was sitting on the other side of that door each night. Didn’t he?

As they left the library, they caught sight of Pansy Parkinson showing something to a group of seventh year Slytherins. They went to pass her gaggle and she turned around to smirk at her one-time love. “Hey, Malfoy! Just in time to see what I’ve created. To show you my support at the upcoming Quidditch try-outs, of course!”

Parkinson held out a button, not unlike the “Potter Stinks!” ones Malfoy had made years ago. But on it, the words “PUCKER UP AND KISS IT!” alternated with a child-like caricature of Malfoy being kissed by a dementor. “Maybe the Mudblood would like one? I won’t even make you pay!” Parkinson said gleefully.

Hermione stepped forward, ready to come to physical blows with Parkinson when Malfoy stepped in front of her. “Do not call her that,” he said between clenched teeth.

“Got a soft spot for her now, do you?” the pug-nosed girl asked, her nasally voice slicing through Hermione. 

“The War is over, Pansy. Move on,” Malfoy replied.

“Yes, and yet, here you stand when you should be sharing a cell with dear old dad. The Crabbes will want retribution, and I can’t wait to see Crabbe, Sr. kill you, you traitor!” Pansy spat, stepping right into him, unfazed by his menacing stance.

“You’re going to wait a nice long while. Because, from my understanding, Crabbe, Sr. is sharing a cell with your father,” Malfoy said and Parkinson smacked him soundly across the face. 

Hermione pushed Malfoy out of the way and raised her wand, pointing it straight between Pansy’s eyes. “If you don’t back off, I promise you, I will give you a pair of horns like the bovine bitch that you are.” 

It was precisely this moment that Professor Slughorn came around the corner. Hermione was shaking with rage as Malfoy quickly grabbed her arm to lower her wand from the threatening stance. “Come on, Granger. It’s not worth it,” he whispered, tugging her arm.

“I’m going to finish what I started,” Hermione said, wondering if her wandless magic was good enough in her anger to follow through on her threat.

“Granger. I am on probation, I cannot go to Azkaban. Just drop it,” he said urgently and Hermione finally tore her eyes away from the other female, who stood in front of three other Slytherins, all of whom looked ready for blood.

“This isn’t over,” Hermione warned her as she turned to go.

“Is that a threat, _Mudblood_?” one of the Slytherins asked. 

“No. It’s a promise,” Hermione replied, waltzing away as Professor Slughorn called after her.

Malfoy was staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched. “You cannot keep doing that.”

“Why?” she demanded. “I’m in no danger of going to Azkaban. And she deserves a good beating.”

“I’m not Potter or Weasley. I can handle my own,” he said, refusing to look down at her.

“I have no doubt. But you’re letting them walk all over you,” she argued. 

“Granger,” there was underlying ice in his tone. “Drop it.”

Hermione stopped in front of his door. She looked up at him and he looked downtrodden and exhausted. “If you have any questions on the Arithmancy, you know where my room is.” _You visit me every night!_

She pulled the pen-pal journal from her bag and handed it to him, confident in what she had written. He rolled his eyes and handed her his own. “I already wrote my entry as well,” he said quietly, all playfulness gone.

Hermione hugged his journal close to her chest and averted her eyes, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “If you need to talk…or just get away…I’m usually in my room if I’m not in the library.”

He looked down at her, confusion knitting his brow. “I’ll…keep that in mind,” he replied slowly.

Hermione knew he was thinking of their late-night dates at the door as well. She gave him a kind smile and ambled slowly to her room, fighting with herself to not look back at him. When she got into her dorm, she nearly ran to her room. His last entries had been short, so she wasn’t expecting much. But anything was better than nothing. 

_18 September 1998_

_Granger,_

_I know you would expect me to write of dreams, in the whimsical sleeping sense. But I am sure you don’t want to hear what keeps me up at night. Instead, I would prefer to write about aspirations._

_You see, from the time I turned sixteen, I never thought I would live to see the end of the War and I certainly never thought I would make it out without prison time. So, I never truly gave any thought to what I would want to do with my adult life. When I was a child, I had the foolish idea that I would move to Romania and tame dragons or play Quidditch professionally. Childish notions._

_I would like to clear my name, and my mother’s. I wish to make the Malfoy surname something to be respected once more. Redemption does not come easily to me, but I would give anything to be able to do some good in this world and be known for my philanthropy and not the Mark on my arm._

_I’ve also wanted to be a father. My father was not always a selfish prick—there was a time when the Malfoys were truly happy. But he failed my mother and me in a major way when the Dark Lord called him to that graveyard in fourth year. And I can never forgive him for those failures. But I wish to have a child of my own, so I can be a better father than mine was to me._

_I want to be a potioneer, to open my own Apothecary in Hogsmeade so that everyone doesn’t have to go to Diagon Alley for their needs. I’m quite adept at creating, tweaking and utilizing potions and I’m going to begin shadowing Madam Pomfrey soon to learn the intricacies of Healing potions._

_I want to see the world, not just wizarding. I’ve been saddled down in England my entire life, only vacationing in places my father approved of—resorts and castles owned by upstanding Pure-blood families. But what of the rest of the world? I heard one could ride an elephant in Thailand or swim amongst fish in the ocean._

_I want to get away._

_\--Draco_

Hermione felt for him—this ex-Death Eater who had never wanted to be a Death Eater, to begin with. He had actual life goals and ambition. And she wanted to help him achieve it all. She ran her finger over the words and felt a tear splash down her cheek to smudge the word ‘elephant.’ She noticed, too, that he signed his given name when he was writing something personal and meaningful. If he was writing something he didn’t really care about or some quick answer, it was always signed D.M. She wondered if she could begin calling him Draco…if he would be comfortable with the familiarity. Then her heart began to race at what she wrote to him in her entry… the one word he wouldn’t understand right away…

o-o-o

 

_18 Sept 1998_

_Malfoy,_

_I don’t have dreams. I have full-fledged nightmares. I haven’t had a dream about anything ‘normal’ in over a year. Any time I close my eyes, I see the bodies in the Great Hall, the caskets, and pyres, Voldemort’s eyes as he announced to the world that he’d killed Harry._

_When I was a child, my dreams were so realistic that I sleepwalked. I would wake up halfway through eating a ham sandwich at three in the morning. Luckily for me, my somnambulism stopped before I came to Hogwarts. But now I have tremors, and I jerk awake or thrash around. I’ve woken myself up screaming. I don’t know how to make these night terrors end. I’ve tried a few therapy sessions and they didn’t work. I suppose that’s the life of a war heroine, huh?_

_I have to take a sleeping-draught every night and hope that it’ll be strong enough. I don’t ever get into bed until the early hours of the morning, but I can take the potion and wake in enough time to get to breakfast. I really should buy the entire stock of Pepper-Up potion in Diagon Alley!_

_I don’t want to continue with these depressing talks—next time, we write something upbeat! These themes of Professor McGonagall’s are boring! You pick the topic next time!_

_\--Hermione_

_Ferox_

Draco stared for a long while at the word she’d written under her name. _Ferox?_ What did that even mean? In Latin, “fierce.” But why had she written it? It hadn’t appeared in any of her other letters. He reread her letter once more as he made his way to her door. _I don’t ever get into bed until the early hours of the morning_. Draco knew this, he could feel her presence every night.

He leaned against the door, standing up. It was much earlier than usual and he couldn’t yet feel the gentle vibrations of her magic through the oak. _“Ferox?”_ he whispered to himself and he felt the door behind him crack open, causing him to stumble backward.

He looked around the sitting room, similar to his and yet so different—warmer, more inviting, more _Granger_. He could hear the shower running and he fought the urge to think about the fact that there was a naked woman less than twenty feet away. He tried to focus on the bigger picture. She had given him the password to her room. Why?


	6. Chapter 6

Hermione put on her pajamas in the quiet of her room, thinking of going to sit by her door earlier than usual. She hoped he would come early as she desperately wanted to feel that soothing hum of magic he emanated. She grabbed her towel and began pinching fistfuls of hair into it to dry.

 

When Hermione left her bedroom, she nearly died in her tracks. There was a pale blond head poking above the back of her couch. She swallowed hard—no way had she expected him to solve that riddle so quickly. Her footsteps were creaking over the floorboards and she knew he heard them, but he still hadn’t said anything. She tried to muster some of her Gryffindor bravery. “That was fast. I expected it to take you a week or two.”

 

She walked around the couch and came to rest on the side opposite where he sat. She brought one knee up and rested it on the arm of the couch, trying to convince herself that she was simply dreaming. But Malfoy looked up at her, a strange expression on his face. “Granger,” his voice was hoarse, “why did you give me the password to your room?”

 

“How did you figure it out so quickly?” she asked him.

 

“I asked you first,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Can I sit?” she asked, gesturing to the spot next to him instead of her chair opposite him.

 

“It’s your room,” he replied, patting the couch cushion.

 

Hermione came around to sit, tossing her towel onto the desk as she did so. She sat with her back to the arm of the couch and wanted to draw her knees up to her chin, but thought better of it as she realized that was the most unapproachable stance she could take. Instead, she crossed her leg under the other that dangled toward the floor and stared down at her hands as she pulled at a loose thread in her pajama bottoms. He was sitting with both of his feet on the floor, facing forward. “So?” he prodded. “Why did you give me your password?”

 

Hermione’s heart was pounding harder than she thought it ever had before. She hadn’t had enough time to mull over a viable answer. She decided to just tell him, to speak to him as she had only wished she could prior, and hope she didn’t come off as creepy or worse, pathetic. “This is my home…not Hogwarts, but these two rooms specifically. I figured if I showed you a measure of trust, you would be more inclined to open up. You are closed off to the world and alienated by our idiot peers. I know you’re lonely,” she said quietly, picking at the bottom of her shirt, refusing to look at his profile in the warm firelight.

 

“So are you,” he replied, not much more than a whisper.

 

“Precisely. I just wanted to offer you a place to escape to and a friend you can speak to candidly. You can come past any time you’d like…we don’t need to sit on opposite sides of a door,” she told him gently, finally looking up at him.

 

His eyes snapped to hers. “We’re finally going to address that?” he asked, looking at a spot over her shoulder.

 

“Why do you come every night?” she asked, desperate to know the answer.

 

“Why do you wait every night?” he challenged, feeling cornered all of a sudden.

 

“I asked you first,” she retorted, mirroring his earlier sentiment.

 

“What do you want from me, Granger?” he asked, tossing his hands up and then smacking his palms against his thighs. “Do you want me to tell you the truth? That in this whole blasted school, full of magic and people, it’s _you_ that comforts me?”

 

She looked at him and he looked embarrassed at his confession. “ _I_ comfort _you_? How?”

 

“You almost died in my home. If Dobby hadn’t come when called, you all would have been handed over to the Dark Lord. You would have _died_ , Granger. But you didn’t. You’re alive and you’re _here_. You’re like a specter from a dream, a remnant from my own personal nightmare. To feel the way you emit these… _vibrations_ of magic—you’re so full of life still and…it’s soothing,” Malfoy said, averting his eyes and looking away from her.

 

Hermione thought her heart would beat right up through her mouth and flutter away. Malfoy was admitting that he’d been frightened for her back in his home and that he was relieved she made it through. “Draco,” her voice was small when she spoke, choked by her own emotions.

 

He looked at her upon hearing his given name and she thrilled that he seemed to like hearing it come from her lips. “Your presence soothes me just as much. I would like to befriend you, if you’d let me.”

 

“And tell me, Granger, why exactly would you give me the time of day?” he demanded, his tone on edge but not rude.

 

“Because. Unlike everyone else, I prefer to believe that everyone has good in them. You may have taken the Mark, but I _know_ that you had no desire to join the Death Eaters—that you only did it to save your mother.”

 

He narrowed his eyes at her. “That’s awfully presumptive. And what makes you think that?”

 

Hermione bit her lip—she wasn’t ready to tell him of her dallying with Divination. “I can’t tell you that, yet…when I tell you about the peacocks, it will make more sense.”

 

“You want me to trust you, but you’re already keeping secrets?” he asked, pursing his lips.

 

Ouch. “In due time. I just want you to get to know me before I tell you my secret and you turn and run away,” she explained.

 

Malfoy sighed at her vague answer. “So, I have the password. When do I come by?”

 

“Any time you want,” she shrugged. “My door is always open to you. If I’m not in here, you can sit here if you want. I know sometimes just being away from your own possessions can help with the feelings of being trapped here.”

 

“Do I knock? Do I let myself in?” he asked awkwardly.

 

“Either way. I dress in my room,” she replied, gesturing with a thumb toward her door.

 

He shifted uncomfortably. “And what if you’re…entertaining a date?”

 

Hermione couldn’t help laughing aloud at that. He looked at her in confusion as to what was so funny. She shrugged. “I’m not seeing anyone.”

 

“Yet,” he muttered. “Fine. _Callidus_.”

 

She raised an eyebrow at him. _Callidus?_ He sighed impatiently. “My password. I don’t have a prospective date in my future any time soon. I dress in my room as well, but if you come in the middle of the night, I can’t guarantee I won’t be _au naturale_ ,” he told her, the corners of his mouth tugging as her eyes grew wide.

 

His mood lightened some as he saw the flush on her cheeks and he turned to face her, mirroring her stance with one foot curled under a leg that stretched to the floor. “I never knew you had such a proclivity for Divination.”

 

Hermione’s eyes shot to his and she began to feel panic rising in her throat. “What do you mean?” she asked him, her voice beginning to shake.

 

“You handled that Arithmancy better than Professor Vector even,” he mentioned.

 

 _Arithmancy_. The safe form of Divination to discuss. “Not to mention,” he continued, pointing to her discarded Potions book on the coffee table, “You’re using The Lovers card as a bookmark.”

 

 _Shit._ “Luna had me draw a card and I drew this one.”

 

“Interesting,” he was grinning a devilish smile and Hermione curled her toes toward the ground in an effort to keep herself grounded so she wouldn’t pounce on him and kiss him right there. “And _who_ is the Gemini?”

 

“There isn’t one…it’s purely _metaphorical_ …two sides of the situation being presented,” she answered haughtily.

 

“Ah…I see. _Metaphorical_.”

 

Hermione bit her lip and looked away, cursing herself for leaving that book out where he could see. “Do you want to keep writing one another?” she asked him.

 

He shrugged. “I’m more inclined to speak freely if I’m writing.”

 

Hermione put her hand on his knee and his eyes shot down to it. “You can speak freely to me, Any time. About anything.”

 

“You sure the Hat didn’t want to put you into Hufflepuff?” he asked with a chuckle. “Wanting to discuss _feelings_?”

 

“We don’t have to only discuss feelings…I’ll listen to you prattle in about Quidditch if you’d like—I did for my first six years here,” she grinned.

 

His smile fell some. “You’re still going to try out tomorrow, right?” she questioned, tapping his knee again.

 

He shrugged. “My own House doesn’t want me there.”

 

“You’re the best Seeker in this school,” she scoffed.

 

He gave a sharp laugh at that. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

 

Hermione smiled at his arrogance—well deserved in this case—and was glad that he still had a little confidence left. “You need to try out. If the Slytherins want to win, they’ll choose you. They would be committing Quidditch suicide not to,” she told him, hoping her compliments would make him feel better about himself.

 

“And the buttons?” he asked, referring to Parkinson’s dementor buttons.

 

“I’m going to get her back—don’t you worry,” Hermione told him.

 

He raised an eyebrow. “Why would you go out of your way to fight with Parkinson for me? We aren’t even friends.”

 

Double ouch. “Not yet…but I hope to be soon. And she is way out of line.”

 

“When did you become so vindictive?” he asked, a sly grin across his face.

 

“Do you remember Marietta Edgecomb? She still has to glamour her acne every morning. I also kept Rita Skeeter, in her animagus form, in a glass jar for a year,” Hermione told him and he laughed heartily.

 

His laugh was loud, slightly raspy and throaty; a sexy noise she wished to draw out of him more often. “You’ll try out, won’t you?” she asked again.

 

He nodded. “Sure. For you, I’ll try out. Don’t be surprised if I don’t get it.”

 

“You’ll get it,” she reassured him.

 

He dropped his head onto his fist on the back of the couch. “Tell me…what is a _blanket fort_?”

 

It was her turn to laugh loudly. “You never draped blankets over a table or two gigantic stacks of pillows and stuffed blankets and pillows underneath and camped out in it, like a tent?”

 

Malfoy raised an eyebrow in amusement. “No. Can’t say that I have.”

 

“That is a travesty, that is. What is a childhood without blanket forts?” she was still laughing at the absurdity of his question.

 

“You’ll have to show me sometime,” he replied, giving her a dashing smile as he stood. “But for now, I should go knock myself out with a strong sleeping draught…I’ve got Quidditch try-outs in the morning.”

 

Hermione wanted to take his hand and pull him back down. She wanted to talk to him until the wee hours of the morning about anything that crossed his mind. She felt a cold absence within her as he walked toward the door—she missed him already. “Draco?” she called after him as he reached the door and he looked over his shoulder at her, his face questioning.

 

“I’m going to Hogsmeade to celebrate my birthday tomorrow…you should come too,” she offered.

 

“Will Weasley and Potter be there?” he asked, his tone sharp once more.

 

“I doubt it,” she replied. “They just started training. Consider it, won’t you?”

 

He hesitated a moment and then nodded once before leaving.

 

o-o-o

 

Hermione woke early the next morning, and slipped down to the Great Hall. Ginny was there, shoveling eggs into her mouth in preparation for the Gryffindor try-outs that afternoon. Much to Hermione’s dismay, there was a cloud of balloons hovering over her usual spot and a stack of letters and packages on the table. She glanced toward the Slytherin table and Malfoy was moving porridge around with his spoon absently, but looked up at her amusedly when she passed.

 

“Ginny, was this really necessary?” Hermione asked, tugging at the balloons’ strings.

 

“Of course. You only turn nineteen once!” she said, looking over at her pile of gifts and letters. “Your fan club started delivering these before the sun rose today.”

 

Hermione groaned and set fire to the entire pile, not caring what was in any of the envelopes. Ginny laughed loudly and she looked up to see Malfoy smiling as he tucked into his bowl of porridge. At least he had a moment that could make him smile.

 

She left with Ginny, intent on going to watch the Slytherin Quidditch try-outs. It seemed a majority of the student body had the same idea, as the stands were completely filled. And her stomach dropped as she noticed the majority of the students were wearing the _PUCKER UP AND KISS IT_ buttons. Parkinson had spread them far and wide in a short amount of time. Her heart was heavy when the prospective players walked out and she saw Malfoy’s head drop to stare at the ground instead of at the crowds around him. Ginny put her arm around Hermione. “He’ll be okay. He’s resilient and cocky enough to persevere.”

 

She watched as the other positions tried out, and as the other Seeker flew around and missed the snitch three times when it was within arm’s reach before he caught it—thirty minutes later. There was some talking on the field, the Slytherin Captain and Theo Nott were arguing, gesturing toward Malfoy. The Captain threw his hands up and seemingly told Malfoy to mount his broom.

 

 _“Let’s go Malfoy! Straight to Azkaban!”_ came the cheer from the Slytherin stands, each syllable punctuated with a clap.

 

Parkinson was screaming it loudly. A few others from each House joined in, while a handful looked uncomfortable by it. Hermione stood up swiftly, and Ginny tugged her arm. “’Mione, you can’t just go hexing people!”

 

She wasn’t even watching Malfoy anymore, instead she had tunnel vision and Parkinson was directly at the other end. Her hands shook next to her, gripping her wand tightly. Hermione watched as Malfoy caught the snitch and landed, throwing it forcefully at the Captain, who avoided getting hit between the eyes only marginally. He stalked away to retrieve his items from the locker rooms. Parkinson was laughing gleefully as she continued her chant and Hermione had finally had enough. Using every ounce of magical energy she had, she transfigured a set of heifer horns to sprout from Pansy’s forehead. Her chants started to sound like a cow’s cries and she let out a loud screech.

 

“Hermione!” Ginny said, smacking her forehead dramatically.

 

Hermione stood and strode down the stairs of the Gryffindor stands and directly up to her room, ignoring the loud panicked screams from the Slytherin stands. She ignored Ginny’s calls after her. She just kept striding, all the way up to her room. She felt out of control, vengeful and angry. They had humiliated him and it was all her fault—she’d pressured him into trying out. He would never forgive her for this, she was sure.

 

She sat down on the couch, tears stinging her eyes as she pressed the heels of her hands into them. They’d fought a _War_ to stop this type of behavior and yet, the very ones they’d fought to defeat were still as persistent as ever to ruin the opposition. Malfoy had done the right thing and he _still_ wasn’t being accepted. He had saved her life, more than once. He had tamed the burning of the Cruciatus for her, had tried so desperately to keep her alive. And he had to come back to this school and get treated like a murderer—by his _friends_. These were people he’d trusted in life—he’d grown up with them long before she’d met Harry or Ron. And they turned their backs on him because he’d done _the right thing_. The notion frustrated Hermione to no end.

 

She heard the soft click of her door opening and she removed her palms from her eyes. She blinked away the spots and he was there. He was still in his Quidditch jersey and a pair of jeans, a melancholy look gracing his features. She stood quickly and stopped five feet from where he stood, uncertain of what to do. Malfoy simply shrugged and sighed.

 

Hermione lunged forward and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her level. She felt his stiffness melt away when he wrapped his arms around her back and pressed her close to himself, burying his face into the place where her neck swept into her shoulder. His hair tickled her neck and she could feel his breath hot against her skin as he breathed evenly.

 

Draco Malfoy had sought her out as a friend. He had actually listened when she told him to trust her, to let her in. But it hurt to have it happen in this manner—when he was so downtrodden and broken.


	7. Chapter 7

Malfoy’s arms were wrapped tightly around her back and she was hyperaware of the way his fingers were splayed against the fabric of her shirt, hugging her to himself. She tried to step closer to him, pulling him down to her as her arms nearly strangled him. It took every ounce of energy she had not to brush her lips across his neck as she inhaled his scent—cedar, aged parchment and an earthy vetiver smell, like the earth after a rain. His face turned away from hers and his soft hair tickled her cheek. She ran her fingertips over the nape of his neck and he sighed, rubbing his cheek against her shoulder. “I’m sorry—” she began.

 

There was a sharp knock at Hermione’s door and she reluctantly pulled away from Malfoy’s embrace. “Miss Granger!” came Professor McGonagall’s voice from the other side of the oak door.

 

“Go in my room,” Hermione whispered, pointing to her door.

 

Malfoy slipped into her room and closed the door and she opened the door to her sitting area. The Headmistress was standing in the hallway, her arms crossed and a severe look on her face. “Miss Granger. I have heard from no less than three teachers who were present at the Quidditch try-outs, all of whom told me you hexed Pansy Parkinson. And that you refused to stop when being called.”

 

Hermione shrank under the look her favorite teacher was giving her. “They’re not lying. But, I did not hear any teachers calling for me to stop…I was so upset.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“Parkinson has created buttons to taunt Draco Malfoy…she had a repulsive cheer to go along with them,” Hermione replied, looking down at the ground.

 

“As I recall, Mr. Malfoy did exactly that during the Triwizard Tournament? ‘Potter Stinks’, I believe is what they read? And I do believe he penned the original lyrics to ‘Weasley Is Our King’. Hermione, people can be cruel. But heckling is not a cause to attack another student,” Professor McGonagall said, looking at Hermione over her glasses, her lips pressing into a thin line.

 

“It is more than just heckling. This is downright bullying, Professor. With the War being so fresh, with his poor decisions weighing on him, he really doesn’t need the entire school yelling about him going to Azkaban or wearing buttons portraying him getting the Kiss,” the younger witch said, her tone clipped as she fought anger once more.

 

The shrewd Headmistress looked over her favorite student and sighed. “I am going to say something about it over dinner tonight. You are absolutely right in saying that it is verging on bullying and harassment. I understand that Miss Parkinson has been overheard calling you a vile name, not once, but twice this year?”

 

Hermione shrugged and pulled back her left sleeve. “I see the word every day of my life. It hardly affects me anymore.”

 

“Well, the only reason I’m giving you detention and not expelling you for your hex is because she has been provoking you since term began a few weeks ago. Do not give me another reason to speak to you in this capacity, Hermione. You are far too bright to be dragged down by your anger over the past.”

 

“I’m angry over the present, Professor. I didn’t live in constant fear for my life and fight alongside Harry and Ron and the others to win a War, to live in a world that still allows people like Pansy Parkinson to instigate problems. Draco Malfoy made a lot of wrong choices, but in the end, he made the right one. And _that_ is the only choice that matters,” Hermione replied angrily.

 

“You’re right. And, as I said, harassment will not be tolerated. But you must carry yourself with grace and understanding. Some students here lost loved ones and they need someone to blame. He is the scapegoat and it is going to be hard to change people’s perceptions in the blink of an eye. Mr. Malfoy is resilient and has been dealt a difficult life that not many people can appreciate or understand. I’m glad that someone can take up for him, but I feel that I must warn you to keep your guard up…he is still an ex-Death Eater, and that mentality doesn’t disappear overnight either,” the Headmistress finished, her voice stern with underlying warning.

 

“Professor, I hear your warning and respectfully request that you refrain from future comment on whomever I keep company with. I will befriend anyone who needs a listening ear and a guiding hand. _That_ is why I fought this War—to ensure that everyone’s lives would improve and that no one would continue to suffer in oppressive silence,” Hermione told her, her tone polite and even.

 

Professor McGonagall nodded once, a mutual understanding passing between the two. McGonagall had said her piece and Hermione acknowledged her worries. That was all that could be done. “I understand today is your birthday. I would assume that you have plans to head into Hogsmeade with Miss Weasley and a few others?” McGonagall asked, raising an eyebrow.

 

Hermione, who had completely forgotten her birthday in the chaos of the last hour, simply nodded. Professor McGonagall gave her a slight smile. “Then your detention will begin Monday. One week, shining the armor in the armoury hall and the Mirror of Erised is getting a new home in the Divination classroom in the North Tower, so I would like for you to orchestrate its transportation from the underground chambers and up to the Tower.”

 

Hermione nodded once and McGonagall leaned closer to her. “Nice execution of the Horn Sprouting Hex, by the way. I do not condone what you did, make no mistake. But it was a complicated piece of spellwork that took incredible strength from across the Quidditch Pitch.”

 

With that, the Headmistress took her leave and Hermione closed the door, leaning back on it as she let out a long breath. Malfoy opened her bedroom door and leaned against the doorframe. “Well…at least you’re not expelled,” he tried to joke, though his voice was strained.

“I’m sorry you had to hear what she said,” Hermione said, watching him as he shrugged once.

 

“She’s not wrong. I was a little shit when we were younger. Now I’m reaping what I’ve sown, as I’ve told you,” he said, and his voice sounded as though he were trying to convince himself more than she.

 

She desperately wanted to fling her arms around him once more as he stood in the doorway to her bedroom, but the moment had passed and the connection was lost. She wanted to argue with him, tell him that he still didn’t deserve their treatment. He ran a hand through his hair. “So…about this Hogsmeade thing…”

 

“I’d love if you could come,” Hermione told him. “We’re heading over for dinner after the Gryffindor try-outs.”

 

Malfoy nodded, mulling over her offer. “I’d like to be alone right now. I’ll meet you there,” he told her.

 

“Okay. Six at the Three Broomsticks,” she said, giving him a genuine smile.

 

o-o-o

 

Hermione and Ginny entered the Three Broomsticks with Neville and Luna at five minutes to six. Ginny, nearly bubbling over with excitement squealed when they entered and the two frames of Harry Potter and Ron Weasley became visible. Hermione nearly groaned. She wanted to see her friends—she missed them already as she tried to navigate Hogwarts for a “normal” year of schooling. But she still held out hope that Malfoy would show and Ron would not make that a pleasant encounter.

 

She plastered a fake smile across her face and hugged each man in turn. “Happy Birthday, Hermione!” Harry said, taking her bag and coat to hang on a hook near their table.

 

Ron hugged her next and Hermione felt it lingered a little too long for her liking. She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and looked to Ginny. “Can I talk to you for a second?” Hermione asked, not waiting for a response as she pulled the redhead’s arm.

 

“Ow, ‘Mione, what the hell?”

 

“You didn’t tell me they were going to be here,” Hermione whispered harshly.

 

Ginny furrowed her brow. “I didn’t know you needed a warning—”

 

“What in the bloody hell is _he_ doing here?” came Ron’s voice.

 

“ _That_ is why a heads up would have been nice,” Hermione said through clenched teeth as the two girls turned to see Draco Malfoy step through the door.

 

“Shit, Hermione. I didn’t know,” Ginny said with a groan.

 

Hermione stepped around her and stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at Ron. “ _I_ invited him to _my_ birthday celebration. Is that okay with you?”

 

Ron’s ears turned scarlet, but he looked away. She turned around and Malfoy was standing near the door, a set of three small packages in his hands and a scowl in his face. She took a deep breath, trying to steady her fraying nerves, and slowly made her way to the blond. “I thought you said they wouldn’t be here,” he said accusatorily.

 

“I didn’t know Ginny had invited them. I wouldn’t have invited you to something I knew you’d be uncomfortable with,” she told him, placing a hand on his upper arm and looking back at Ron, who narrowed his eyes.

 

“We aren’t children anymore. If they can behave themselves, so can I,” Malfoy said, looking from the worried faces at the table down to Hermione’s.

 

She gave him a wide, pleased smile and led him back to the table. “First round of drinks is on me!” Harry announced, standing. “Malfoy, what’ll you have?”

 

The blond raised one eyebrow and deadpanned, “Ogden’s, three fingers, two ice cubes.”

 

“How simple,” Ron commented.

 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Ginny asked her brother, her tone irritated with him already.

 

“I would have thought he’d try to pull some rare drink out of his arse,” he replied, to which Malfoy let out a genuine laugh.

 

“I’ll purchase the rare drinks next round, how about that?” he asked.

 

Luna leaned forward to look at Malfoy over Neville’s chest. “When a man knows what he wants, there’s no need for fanciful illusions. If you enjoy the simpler things in life, there is no shame in that.”

 

Malfoy gave Luna a bewildered look and Hermione giggled nervously. “Too right you are, Luna,” Neville said politely.

 

Ron was sulking when Harry returned with everyone’s drinks. “So, Malfoy,” he began, and Hermione recognized an all-too-mischievous glint in his eye, “tell me, are you studying anything particularly _interesting_ this year?”

 

Harry was making an effort, knowing how important this was to Hermione. But she wished he would tone down his efforts a notch, that glint in his eye making her anxious. Malfoy looked bewildered both by Harry’s attitude and question. “I am in Advanced Alchemy,” he supplied slowly, looking around at everyone else’s faces to see if they were all in on some kind of joke.

 

“ _Fascinating._ Hermione was telling us how she’d _just_ missed her chance to take Divination—it’s taught at the same time as Ancient Runes and without the use of a time-turner, she couldn’t very well be in two places at once,” Harry said, sipping his butterbeer and sharing a look with Hermione, who kicked his shin.

 

Malfoy looked at her and smirked. “I thought you found Divination to be irrelevant and a waste of time? Though…perhaps your _Gemini_ would find this little tidbit interesting.”

 

“Say, you’re a Gemini, right, Draco?” Luna asked airily, making Hermione snort her butterbeer unattractively through her nose.

 

Malfoy let out a laugh. “I’m hardly Granger’s type,” he smirked, giving Ron a pointed once over.

 

“I find Hermione’s taste to be somewhat eccentric,” Ginny joined in and Hermione could feel her face burning almost as scarlet as the tips of Ron’s ears.

 

“That is _quite_ enough!” she said, glaring at all of her friends. “My taste in men—”

 

“Or women,” Ginny interjected, making Malfoy choke on his drink this time.

 

“ _—men,_ is hardly something we should be discussing over my birthday dinner,” she said, pinching Ginny’s arm.

 

The redhead laughed and Harry put his arm around the back of Ginny’s chair. Ron was stewing where he sat, a seething hatred rolling off of him. “I couldn’t agree more, ‘Mione.”

 

“Tell me, how has training been going?” she asked her two oldest friends.

 

“Brilliant. It’s like an amped up Dumbledore’s Army,” Harry said, downing the rest of his drink.

 

“Except,” Ron gave Malfoy a pointed look before continuing, “we’re actually capturing _fugitive_ Death Eaters and making a difference.”

 

“Draco, why don’t we go get some of those rare libations? And maybe some finger food for the table?” Luna asked, rising.

 

Malfoy’s cheeks were turning a bright red as he stood. Hermione watched him make his way to the bar and then turned and glared at Ron. “What the hell was that?”

 

“He’s a Death Eater, Hermione. He trained under the Darkest wizard in a millennia and you want to fuck around with him? Have you lost your mind?” the redheaded man asked.

 

“We are not _fucking around_. I invited a friend to a dinner with _friends_. And he is not the same as the others, and you know it,” she replied, trying to keep her voice to a whisper, but achieving only a low growl.

 

“He is a failure as a man and as a wizard in this community. I have to give credit where credit is due, though. If he wasn’t such a _coward and a shit Death Eater_ , Dumbledore probably would have died before explaining the horcruxes to Harry. And then where would we be?” Ron asked, his own voice rising.

 

Malfoy’s blond hair caught her eye and Hermione turned to see him standing a pace from the table. Harry was frowning at his friend. “I hardly think failing to kill someone else is cowardly, Ron.”

 

“I agree, Harry. But perhaps Ron would like to explain to the table how he abandoned you and me in the cold woods to go home and check on _his_ family?”

 

“Hermione,” Ginny touched her arm.

 

She promptly snatched her arm back, feeling the all-too-familiar rage starting to well within. Malfoy came up beside her. “Granger, I didn’t mean to start anything on your birthday. I bought a bottle of Lancelot of London, 1774—the rarest and _most expensive,_ for you all to enjoy,” he said, addressing the table at large, his jab on price directed at Ron.

 

He turned back to Hermione and handed her three small boxes. “Happy Birthday, Granger,” he told her, and he leaned in and gave her an innocent peck on the cheek before storming out of the pub.

 

She watched him leave, her hand over her cheek where his lips had seared their brand into her flesh. “Goddamit, Ron. You couldn’t just be civil one night, could you?” Ginny snapped.

 

“I’m sorry, am I the only one who doesn’t want to mix company with former Death Eaters?” he spat, looking around at everyone.

 

They all looked back at him, and even Harry had to raise an eyebrow. “Ron, you’re being unreasonable—”

 

“ _Unreasonable?_ Harry, we catch people like him for a living!”

 

“Ron, let me ask you a question,” Ginny said, leaning on the table to glare at her brother, a scolding look on her face that would have made Molly Weasley proud, “if Luna had brought him tonight, would you still be having this reaction?”

 

“Luna is a grown woman, she can do _whomever_ she pleases—”

 

“So can I, Ronald! If you haven’t noticed, I am _single_ and free to befriend, court or sleep with whomever I want!” Hermione said, standing and snatching Malfoy’s packages and decanter of bourbon from the table. “I’m sorry you all wasted your time coming out. Thank you for taking the time to be here, but I really need to be getting back. I’ve got some homework I could be doing right now.”

 

With that, Hermione stormed out, leaving her friends behind. She had dealt with the idiocy of Ronald Weasley for nearly the entirety of sixth year, with his foul mood for the entire horcrux hunt. She’d be damned if he ruined another year for her. She craned her neck over the evening rush of Hogsmeade patrons to see if she could spot the white blond halo she sought. He walked much more quickly than she, his legs much longer than hers, and he was nowhere to be found.

 

Hermione made her way quickly back to Hogwarts, leaving the others far behind as she cursed Ron for being such an arsehole, Ginny for being so shortsighted and not warning her, Harry for not punching Ron in the throat, Neville for being so passive, and Luna for being so damn _right_. She was feeling the rage within her, vibrating her bones and making her blood run hot.

 

She made her way up to her room and felt dejected to find it empty. Upon retrieving the Marauder’s Map, she found that comforting little dot and strong, aristocratic name she knew all too well. He was in his room, pacing fervently. Hermione wanted to go to Malfoy, to go back hours in time and settle in his embrace. He’d given her his password, but she felt it intrusive to go to him when it was her friends’ faults that he was in this state. She needed to apologize, but knew he needed space.

 

Hermione sat on her bed and opened her gifts from him, surprised by how well they suited her. In the thin box was a quill made from the pristine feather of a raven. She marveled at the way it shimmered in her light—green when turned one way, purple the other—not quite black. She then opened the largest package and found a first edition _Serpent, Lion, Badger and Eagle_ , biographies written about the Hogwarts founders based solely on oral traditions that were passed down. It was written in Gaelic and appeared to be old—Hermione suspected it may have come from the notorious Malfoy family library. She ran her fingertips over the spine, the slightly worn cover and then lifted the book to her nose to inhale the scent of an ancient book. And then she placed it aside and retrieved the third small package. When she unwrapped it, she found a metal tin, hand-pressed sigils and runes embossed into the metal expertly. It was clearly handmade and Hermione wondered if he had done it in his tinkering with Alchemy. She opened the tin and found a deck of Tarot cards with a note on top. _I’m keeping the Lovers card, seeing as you already have one._ That cheeky prat. Hermione smiled widely and nearly squealed girlishly as she thought about how possibly flirty this snarky little comment was.

 

That night, she sat alone at her door until the sun rose on the horizon.

 

o-o-o

 

The next morning, Malfoy was not at breakfast. Hermione went up to her room after and retrieved the Map. He wasn’t in his room, the library, the Great Hall for a late breakfast, or any of the classrooms. She scanned the entire map until she spotted him by the Black Lake. Battling with herself the entire time, she jogged down the stairs and out toward the Lake. He had been off to the far side of the Map and she spotted him quickly.

 

Hermione surveyed his stance—he was laying on the grass with his head back on his locked hands. She glanced toward the Quidditch Pitch—the hoops had been repaired in preparation for the Quidditch try-outs. A quick glance at the repaired turrets and she grew confused and saddened. The scenery was different, not damaged or burnt, but repaired and clean. She looked back at Malfoy. The way he was relaxed alongside the Lake was exactly as it had been in her vision.

 

She walked over to where he was, glancing toward where she’d been when she’d watched this transpire. Her heart started stuttering as she thought of the way this moment would be similar and different from the way it had been in her vision. Hermione stood next to him, looking down at his pale face as he soaked in the warm sunlight. He was wearing his usual black trousers and long-sleeved shirt, and she knew that the clothing was absorbing even more warmth—there was no way he’d feel like ice now. Her hair created a shadow over his features and he peeked one eye open as his stream of sunshine was blocked, looking only slightly miffed.


	8. Chapter 8

Draco felt like he was going stir-crazy inside his room. He had come back from Hogsmeade and spent too many hours over thinking the events that had transpired. For some reason, one he couldn’t quite grasp, Granger was putting every effort into trying to befriend him. It was everything he’d yearned for as a teenager—one person who could match him intellectually, with a fiery personality and a loyalty that was unwavering. He had spent countless hours chewing Theo’s ear off about her—how brilliant she was, how impressed he was that a Muggle-born could perform intricate and complicated magic, how she was being weighed down by her dunderheaded friends and needed a match as well. None of the Ravenclaws, with their ‘wit beyond measure,’ ever held a candle to her.

 

Now that those teenaged dreams were becoming a reality as he entered adulthood, Draco couldn’t make sense of it. A person could forgive a slur, but it was much harder to forgive a murder that kick-started a War. How could someone as pure and innocent as Hermione Granger possibly forgive him for the monumental mistakes he’d made in his life?

 

Draco had spent the better part of the night pondering exactly that, refusing to give into temptation and run to her room. He thought of Granger, so different to what he’d always known her to be. She was still a bookworm, with an insatiable thirst for knowledge. Still loyal but unwilling to bend any longer—she was learning to stand up for herself, even if it meant going against her long-time friend to pursue what she believed to be right. And little details of her life slipped in here and there—he had watched her from the Slytherin table when he decided to eat meals in the Great Hall and saw that she enjoyed fresh strawberries in her porridge, a drizzle of dark chocolate over the top. She drank coffee most mornings, but he had seen tea bags on her counter so surmised she must drink it in the evenings. She bit her lip when she was deep in thought, but also when she was nervous or embarrassed. And she dressed in strangely provocative clothing—dark colors, plaid skirts and thigh-high hose with Muggle shoes to match.

 

Draco had never considered her looks in the past, more focused on her brain power. But the day she had helped him with his Arithmancy—which he, admittedly, had no problems with and only pretended to in hopes that she would come and assist—was forever engrained in his mind. She had paid little mind to her clothing when she bent forward in a skirt that was six inches shorter than her school uniform. The sight of the tops of those hose, usually hidden under the hem of the skirt, contrasting with her bronzed skin—it awoke something in him.

 

He hadn’t had time to consider females for the last two years. Sixth year, he was consumed by his task and nearly died of exhaustion and worry. Seventh year, the Dark Lord had taken up residence in his home, tainting every good memory he’d had of the manor. Living under the shadow of the Dark Lord’s ever looming presence had left little time for dalliances and relationships. His parents, for all of their issues, had instilled in him the concept of waiting for love before jumping into serious relationships. He’d had plenty of experience snogging and other methods of sexual gratification when he was a fourth and fifth year. But he had yet to find someone to share _that_ with. And that made him even more anxious in thinking about relationships. _Inexperience._

Granger wasn’t offering a relationship, so his scrambled thoughts were all for naught. She was offering friendship—another concept that was foreign to him. Draco knew that he would die for Theodore Nott, if it came down to it. But he considered him a brother, not a friend. Outside of him, every other individual he had thought were his friends had turned their back on him. Gregory Goyle had returned his attempts at communication with a dung bomb, Pansy Parkinson was currently on a crusade to have his head on a platter, and Blaise Zabini had decided his troubles weren’t worth the time. Some days, he felt as though he were being torn apart from the inside, the crippling loneliness eating away at his health and sanity. It would feel so _good_ to have just _one_ person to turn to, who hadn’t been tainted by Death Eater mentality and lies. And _that_ is what Granger was offering. To be someone he could turn to if he needed to speak aloud of his feelings, fears, nightmares.

 

That thought terrified and excited him in equal parts.

 

Draco lay along the shore of the Black Lake, mourning his lack of experience in friendship, love and lust. Granger’s face kept springing to his mind, and he was convinced he was going mad with the constant loop of scenarios that ran through his mind. The sun was shining, warm and inviting, soaking into his dark clothing and enveloping him like a blanket. The gentle warm breeze was much more comforting than the dark room he dwelt in.

 

He heard footsteps in the grass, and nearly groaned when he noticed they were drawing near him. A scowl graced his features as he braced himself for a barrage of insults, perhaps a verse of “Straight to Azkaban.” The individual stood near and he felt the gentle hum of magic and opened one eye.

 

“Can I help you, Granger?” he asked, not wanting to sit through the mundane exchange of pleasantries.

 

He wondered if his thoughts of her had somehow conjured her near to him. She looked down at him and gave him a small smile, her mane of luscious curls still blocking the sun. _Luscious? When the fuck did that happen?_ “I just saw you sitting out here all alone, thought you might like company.”

 

Draco’s heart was racing, the fear of getting close to this witch—the witch he’d only ever dreamt of befriending—a very real presence in his thoughts. What if she eventually grew tired of him—he could be crestfallen, moody, arrogant? What if her friends could finally get through to her and she rejected him, after he’d let his guard down and drawn close to her? He gestured to the ground beside himself. “I’m not much for conversation,” he said, his tone entirely too clipped in his attempt to mask his inner turmoil.

 

“I’m not looking for conversation,” Granger shrugged, and she sat alongside him, stretching her legs out before her. “But I did want to apologize for yesterday. Ron was way out of line.”

 

Draco scoffed. “That was mild compared to some of our past encounters. At least this time he didn’t spit up slugs.”

 

Granger seemed to battle a smile that wanted to spread across her face, loyalty for her friend and irritation for the same friend battling on her features. He sighed. “Judging by the fact that you are sitting out here, I’m going to assume that they didn’t effectively convince you that I am the root of all evil.”

 

She looked down at him then and he noticed she seemed distracted. She almost seemed as though she were waiting for something to happen. Finally sighing, Granger laid back next to him in the soft grass. “You shouldn’t let them get to you,” she finally said after a long pause.

 

“Who?”

 

“The other students…Ron. They don’t know you or what you’ve been through,” she replied, looking over at him from where her hands were cradling her head.

 

She spoke as though she knew him, as though they’d been friends forever and it irked him, her naïveté. “Neither do you. If you did, you wouldn’t be sitting here so calmly, Granger.”

 

She sighed and closed her eyes. “I know more than you think.”

 

 _I know more than you think._ What the hell did that mean. A shiver ran through Draco as he thought about her presence when he’d been feeding the peacocks. He didn’t know how she was present, but she had confirmed that it was her that night. And she had said that she knew he only joined the Death Eaters to save his mother… she knew more than he gave her credit for. It was really a shame she gave no serious thought to Divination, because she’d probably be bloody brilliant at that as well.

 

 _Divination._ Draco’s eyes shot open and he leaned up on one arm, looking down at the Gryffindor. “Granger. Have you…have you been _divining_?”

 

She looked up at him and he saw her swallow hard. He traced the path of her saliva down her esophagus as she did, the skin of her neck glistening slightly as it swelled with the swallow. “What makes you ask that?”

 

He raised an eyebrow—she was clearly hiding something. “The peacocks. My reasons for joining the Dark Lord. Have you been scrying? Perhaps in a crystal ball? Or in a river when you were on the run?”

 

She bit her lip and he had his answer. “Ron left us, last autumn. I had a mirror and…I was at my wit’s end. I asked the mirror to show me that he was safe.”

 

“And? Did it?”

 

Granger was silent and she pushed a curl from her forehead where it had stuck to the thin sheen now beginning. “No.”

 

“Well, what _did_ it show you? My home? The peacocks?” he prodded, genuinely curious now.

 

“It showed me you, sitting alongside the tree, feeding the birds,” she whispered, and it sounded like she was having a hard time breathing.

 

“Is that how you found all of the horcruxes?”

 

She opened her eyes and looked up at him where he was still leaning up on his elbow peering down at her. Her cheeks flushed and he knew it wasn’t from the heat as she squirmed and readjusted her positioning. He ran a single fingertip over her cheek and down her jaw. “You’re blushing…why?”

 

Granger shook her head slowly, worrying her lip between her teeth. “It only ever showed me scenes involving one person…” her voice trailed off.

 

One person. And of the vision he knew, it revolved around _him_. Draco could feel his heart throbbing in his pulse point. Why had the mirror shown him to her? _What_ had she seen? He thought of the card she kept wedged in her Potions book. “Your Gemini,” he breathed, feeling his heart near stopping.

 

She sat up abruptly and turned toward him, a worried look on her face. “I don’t want this to be weird…I’m not even sure what parts of the visions are truth and what is skewed.”

 

“You’ve had more than one?” he asked incredulously.

 

His mind was racing. _He_ was the Gemini. He had just teased her about Divination, bought the cards for her just to be cheeky. But she had actually _seen_ things. “I had five, six if you include what happened at the Manor at Easter.”

 

 _“Five?_ What were they all?”

 

She shrugged. “They’re private.”

 

“They include me. I want to know what you saw,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

 

“One was of the past, one the present and three the future. I’m just not ready to tell you. I need you to trust me first,” she told him, looking on the verge of tears at spilling her secrets.

 

He instantly felt guilty and he looked away from her. “You’ll tell me though? When the time is right?”

 

Granger nodded. “Yeah…I’ll tell you. In due time,” she replied, relieved that he was complying with her wishes.

 

Draco desperately wanted the answers now, but he didn’t want to push her away. Whatever she had seen was likely the reason behind her sudden interest in befriending him and that thought piqued his interest. He laid back in the grass, the feel of the soft blades tickling his neck as he crossed his hands over his stomach. He closed his eyes and felt Granger lay back beside him. “When I was a child, I stared for hours as the clouds rolled past the Manor. I’d ride up, ever higher on my broom, hoping to be whisked away,” he admitted.

 

“Sometimes I would make up stories for the shapes I found in the clouds,” she replied, growing melancholy. “I’ve been lonesome a long time.”

 

“Me too,” Draco admitted. “Long before sixth year even.”

 

“I’m sorry for what you’ve been through,” she told him. “But you have a second chance now. To start fresh and make amends.”

 

There was the Gryffindor optimism again. “How shall I do that, when everyone is out for my blood? No matter that I was acquitted. I’ve got the Mark on my arm,” he lifted his arm and pulled back his sleeve, exposing the faint pink outline, “to prove that I am the root of everyone’s dismay.”

 

He was beginning to feel hopeless. It was a constant flow of anger, hatred and harassment being geared toward him. “Take it one day at a time. Start letting people see that you’re remorseful. Donate money and, more importantly, time to relief efforts. Write letters to people you’ve wronged and apologize.  But, most importantly, _let people in, Draco._ You can’t keep going like you have been, reclusive and moping about.”

 

Granger was fiery and passionate as she spoke to him, and it gave him a secret thrill. This right here is why she was always his number one goal. Why he’d longed for her friendship—clever, ambitious and passionate. “Have you got any ideas as to what to do yet?” she asked, looking over at him.

 

“A few,” he replied truthfully.

 

He hadn’t been able to narrow down a way to redeem himself and his family just yet—the task seemed so monumental and important that he didn’t want to screw it up. “I’ll help you,” she told him with conviction.

 

Draco was silent for a few moments. He was confused as to what was transpiring between them, but in that moment he felt like she was truly attempting to be his ally and a friend to him. It was more than he deserved and it overwhelmed him. “Thank you,” he told her as they watched the clouds slowly blow by and morph shapes.

 

“For?”

 

“Not being like the others,” he replied.

 

She was still next to him. “I’m alone here, too.”

 

And so she was. Draco had noticed her constant flow of fans and hopeful boys as she walked through the halls or sat down to a meal. But he also noticed that, except for a handful of times she was with Weasley, Longbottom and Lovegood, she mostly kept to herself. She seemed to look forward to their shared nights at her door almost as much as he. That terrified him even further.

 

Granger tilted her head toward his, angling it so their temples nearly touched and raised her finger toward the sky. “See that one there? It looks like a niffler.”

 

Draco felt himself laugh at the absurdity of watching the clouds with Hermione Granger. “And that little puff could be a galleon he’s chasing. Shall we name him Neil?” he asked.

 

“Neil the niffler. Escaped from Gringotts with a handful of coins…”

 

“A niffler on the lam from the law?” Draco questioned.

 

“I’ve always hated that the Goblins kept them anyway.”

 

Draco rolled his eyes at that—of course she’d had a problem with it. She fought for the rights of all creatures. He could feel his heart lightening at the way this strange moment was making him feel and a smile played at his lips. “How about that one? Looks like a dragon to me.”

 

“Perhaps you’re just preoccupied by dragons,” Granger said, turning her head this way and that to study the massive blob. “It’s definitely a fat hippogriff named Hershey.”

 

Draco felt a shiver run through him at the thought of his last encounter with a hippogriff. He laughed heartily. “And I suppose he’s eaten one too many _ferrets?_ ”

 

She grinned widely at his quip. “Precisely. You’d better watch out Malfoy, I hear Hagrid’s all out of ferret food.”

 

He let out an agonized groan. Damn those visions—they’d shown her _that_? They couldn’t show him half nude and freshly showered after Quidditch or brilliantly brewing a potion? It had to show him eating ferret nibbles? For Merlin’s sake. She tilted her head towards his again. “I’ll let you in on a little secret,” she whispered.

 

Draco tilted his head toward hers once more, their hair touching and mingling. “Oh?”

 

“I find ferrets to be adorable,” she whispered, pretending to look around and make sure no one was around to hear her confession.

 

Was she flirting with him? This felt like more than something a friend would say to another. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Granger, if I didn’t know any better, I would think you came here to flirt with me.”

 

She shrugged next to him. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve been flirting right back. I did get a kick out of your note with the cards.”

 

And with that, Granger turned her face toward his. He could feel her nose brush along his cheekbone as she planted a soft kiss to his cheek. He felt a blush creep across that very cheek and into the tips of his ears. “So…about this _blanket_ _fort_ …”

 

Granger let out a tinkling laugh and his heart swelled just a little. “Yes?” she asked in a sing-song manner.

 

“Is it something you do with all of your friends?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

 

“No. It’s only ever been me. Though, come to think of it, you _will_ need the password. And that’s not one I’ll be so willing to give out,” she teased.

 

“And how shall I discover the password then?” he asked, raising up on his elbow once more to look down at her.

 

“You have to earn it,” she told him, poking his chest.

 

“Is that so? And how shall I go about that?” he asked, raising one eyebrow.

 

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” she told him, smiling widely up at him as his head cast a shadow over her face.

 

“And when shall we set forth in creating this fort?”

 

“Saturday, it is supposed to rain,” she told him. “Perfect weather for blanket forts and warm tea.”

 

They fell silent for a long time as they stared up at the sky. “Draco,” she said, looking toward him.

 

He hummed. “When did they fix the Quidditch Pitch? The hoops, the turret on the side of the building and the far wall?”

 

He wrinkled his brow at the question that came from nowhere. “Over the summer. The school was opened to students who wanted to attend some kind of therapy sessions and they banded together and repaired a great deal of the castle.”

 

“Did you attend the sessions?” she asked seriously.

 

He scoffed a laugh. “Do I seem like the kind of person who’s going to open up to a room full of people? I can barely write to one person in a journal!”

 

“It’ll get easier,” she told him. “The closer we get.”


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9:

 

When Hermione entered the Great Hall for dinner on Monday, Malfoy was seated alone at the Slytherin table. She was early and he was already halfway through his meal, so she knew he was eating early and quickly to avoid everyone else. Instead of heading to the Gryffindor table, she went and slid into the bench across from where he was reading a book on Ancient Alchemists. “Thought you could avoid me, huh?” she asked him, reaching into a bowl between them to retrieve some chicken and a roll.

 

He looked up and raised an eyebrow at her, closing his book in front of him. “Just didn’t feel like seeing anyone.”

 

“Including me?” she teasingly asked.

 

“I suppose I could make an exception,” he grinned, leaning forward on the table. “Though, I thought you would have skived off dinner to go and finish your detention early. We do have that chart in Ancient Runes due tomorrow.”

 

“I finished it a week ago,” she shrugged. “Detention starts at seven.”

 

“I have you beat, then. I finished it in the library the day it was assigned!”

 

Hermione, of course, knew this—she probably could have had hers done that early as well, if only she hadn’t been so carefully watching Malfoy complete his chart. “Was that trip to the Forbidden Forest in year one your only detention ever?” he asked, taking a bite of potatoes.

 

“Well, I hardly made it a habit to get caught breaking the rules,” she laughed.

 

“Despite how hard I tried to get you all caught,” Malfoy replied, running his fingertips along the edges of his book’s pages absently.

 

“Yes, well. This detention is well worth it. I would do it again, and probably give her a set of utters to go along with those heifer horns,” Hermione told him, causing him to nearly choke on his food through his laughter.

 

“Granger, you never fail to amaze me,” he remarked and she smiled a satisfied smile as she picked at her food.

 

“So,” he began after a few moments. “Have you figured out how you’d like me to earn the password, yet?”

 

“I thought I told you to figure it out?”

 

“I’ve got one idea. But you tell me what else I can do,” he said, a handsome smirk playing over his features.

 

“Fine. You write one thing each night this week in your journal. Something that no one else in this world knows about you. That’s five secrets,” she told him.

 

His face fell and a frown turned his lips downward. “I may have to revisit this blanket fort idea another time,” he told her, turning to pack his book into his schoolbag.

 

Hermione felt panic rise inside of her. She had pushed him too far. “Don’t,” she reached across the table, her hand falling short about a foot in front of him, “Please, don’t be cross. I just want to get to know you better.”

 

“Granger, I don’t know what you saw when you were poking around in my life with your toys. What made you want to pursue a friendship with me, but I can assure you, I don’t need your charity. I’m not one of your precious house elves in need of saving,” he told her, his tone biting, but his face guarded and uncertain.

 

“The mirror showed me that you aren’t who everyone thinks—arrogant, spiteful, evil. I want a friendship with you because we are kindred spirits and have more in common than I ever thought. And you are every bit as in need of a friend right now as I am,” Hermione told him in a whisper as others began filing into the Hall.

 

At this precise moment, a fifth year, sandy-haired Ravenclaw came sauntering up to where she sat at the Slytherin table, a single red rose in his hand. “Hermione, I wondered if I could talk to you?” he asked, handing her the flower.

 

Hermione could feel her face burning so hot, she was afraid it would catch flame any moment as Malfoy watched her with an amused eyebrow raised. “Aaron. It’s good to see you, but I’m a little busy at the moment,” she said, nodding toward her blond-headed companion.

 

“Don’t mind me, I was just heading out. Have fun,” Malfoy told her, giving her a smug smile as he rose and strode out.

 

Hermione glared after his back as Aaron slid into the bench beside her, adamant on asking for her company to Hogsmeade that weekend.

 

o-o-o

 

At precisely seven, Hermione stood in the armory hallway, painfully aware of how close Malfoy’s room was. McGonagall had given her the usual pre-detention lecture about how she should strive to rise above Pansy Parkinson and be the role model the younger children need. Hermione had nodded in all the right places, not bothering to really listen for fear she would become angry with the Headmistress once more.

 

Professor McGonagall strode away from her, leaving a pile of cleaning cloths and a bucket of rust-dissolving cleaning solution. There were nearly thirty suits of armor, of varying heights and levels of mobility lining the wall opposite Malfoy’s room. Hermione sighed and started with the far suit of armor. He giggled as she ran a pre-cleaning metal protectant over the plates of steel. “I haven’t been touched _there_ in years!” the suit of armor said with a laugh.

 

Hermione stood to deliver a kick to the metal, hoping to dent it, but a deep drawl sounded behind her. “Stuff it, or I shall melt you down and make a broom shed out of you.”

 

“Oooh, _touchy_ ,” the armor replied.

 

She swung around and there was Malfoy, dressed in what she thought he must consider casual clothing—a pair of jeans that probably cost more than all of the clothes in her trunk, a long-sleeved pewter colored shirt that complimented his eyes in an entirely too tantalizing way, a pair of dragon-hide boots on his feet and matching belt holding up the pants on his thin waist. He had the journal in his hand. He looked at her and held the book out for her to take.

 

She furrowed her brow. Not an hour prior he had been angry with her for prying, and now he was handing her a small glimpse into himself. “I’m sorry about earlier,” he mumbled, looking down at his feet.

 

“I’m sorry I pushed. If you don’t want me to read what’s in here, I won’t yet,” she told him, trying to hand him the journal back.

 

“No. Read it. It’s-It’s okay. I’ll tell you one secret a day,” his voice was quiet as he spoke.

 

Hermione stared at him. He was going to open up to her. She knew the right thing to do would be to reciprocate the gesture, and she’d already prepared, just in case. “I’ll tell you one secret a day as well. One vision a day.”

 

Malfoy’s eyes snapped up to hers. “Really?”

 

Hermione nodded and pulled her journal from her pocket and enlarged it to normal size. “I want to know more about you, so you are telling me five new things. You wanted to know about my visions, so I will tell you. It’s only fair.”

 

Malfoy took the book and sat cross-legged on the stone floor, pushing the cleaning bucket away with the toe of his boot and gesturing for her to sit across from him. “Oh…we’re going to read them now?” she asked, her stomach flopping over at the thought.

 

“Why not? If I help you with your detention, it’ll cut your time in half. We’ve got plenty of time to read and then, if you want…you can ask questions,” he told her, sounding as though he were reluctant to be so open but giving it his best effort.

 

“You don’t have to—”

 

Malfoy put a hand up. “You’re in detention because of me. I’ll at least help you.”

 

Hermione had decided to write of her visions in the order she’d had them, the first her account of the peacock incident, with a brief background on how she came to own a scrying mirror and how desperation over Ron Weasley had led her to use it. Her face reddened as she thought of how she’d touched his face tenderly, wiped his tears as he’d cried. He would read that in a few brief moments and she just knew that he would leave. Her heart was hammering in her chest as she opened his journal to his latest entry.

 

_21 September 1998_

_Granger,_

_One secret a day…I’m not even sure I have that many secrets after the Wizengamot interrogated me in front of the Daily Prophet. What to start with?_

_I have only ever sincerely apologized to one person in my entire life—probably not surprising, but no one knows that I’ve only ever said the words once. After I was placed on probation, I knew I needed to start apologizing to those I’ve wronged. First and foremost, Madam Rosmerta. I had no idea how I could possibly apologize to everyone else, but I knew I needed to speak with her in person._

_I went to the Three Broomsticks immediately after my sentencing. She was there and initially, she yelled and threatened me. It took a long while for me to convince her that I was not there to harm her. That was the most painful experience I’ve had thus far—seeing the complete mistrust in her eyes. It was completely warranted, of course, but hurt all the same._

_I spent hours telling her of my internal struggles and apologizing profusely. And in the end, she finally accepted my apology. I spent every Saturday from July until just before we came back to school helping her tend the bar, sweeping and clearing tables. I donated to her and helped her add the newest wing there where your friends sat on your birthday. I even painted the room. I feel it was only a small measure of reparation for the wrongs I committed against her._

_I have many more people I need to say ‘I’m sorry’ to, but the words seem to come out hollow when people don’t believe me. It took hours and days to gain the trust of one witch back, and there are thousands of people within this community. Some days, the task seems monumental._

_\--Draco_

When Hermione looked up at Malfoy, he was staring at the page in her journal, his hand over his Mark. “You said it again,” she said quietly.

 

“What?” he asked, looking up at her.

 

“’I’m sorry.’ You just said it a few minutes ago, to me.”

 

He wrinkled his brow. “So I did. And you accepted so readily.”

 

“We will come up with a way to get you in everyone’s good graces again. But we don’t need to speak of such depressing things tonight,” she told him.

 

“You still hated me. Why did you show me pity and kindness, even then? This was your first vision—you only knew the bigoted, bullying Draco Malfoy.”

 

Hermione drew her knees up to her chest in a protective measure, nervous to let him in despite how much she desperately wanted it. “I always went against Harry for you, even in sixth year. He was convinced you were a Death Eater, but I refused to buy into his conspiracy theories…though, in hindsight, he was obviously right. No one is born evil, they are turned evil. I suspect even Voldemort had a redeeming quality in his youth before his quest for power overtook him. I believed the best of you and honestly, I hadn’t given you any thought since we began the hunt for Horcruxes. So, seeing you that night…” she shrugged—there was no way she could tell him that she’d been stroking a tender flame in her heart for him since third year. She immediately felt hypocritical and bit her lip as the guilt overtook her.

 

“That was the night Professor Burbage died.”

 

Hermione furrowed her brow. “She went missing over the summer. I had this vision in October. So that means it wasn’t present day…” she said dejectedly.

 

“No…it was. She was kept in the dungeons at the Manor…brought out and tortured like the Dark Lord’s plaything,” Malfoy said, looking down at her journal once more, unable to meet her eyes.

 

“Is that why you were crying?” she asked.

 

He scoffed. “I wish I could say I was torn up over a teacher I’d never had a class with. But I wasn’t. My reasoning for being upset was entirely selfish. I was at my wit’s end and in way over my head by that point…perhaps that will be another secret. My mindset by the start of seventh year.”

 

She reached over and touched his hand. “I’m sorry, Malfoy.”

 

“Yeah. Me, too.”

 

o-o-o

 

On Tuesday, Malfoy was already cleaning the remaining suit of armor when Hermione arrived at seven. He was wearing a black shirt and dark jeans and she felt her obsession with his pale skin, contrasting so heavenly with the black cloth, rearing its ugly head. She watched the way the muscles worked below the surface of his forearms as he shined slow circles into the metal. “You’ve cleaned quite a few,” she remarked, placing a hand on his shoulder where he knelt.

 

He tossed the cloth down and sighed. “I worked through dinner.”

 

Hermione had noted that he was absent during the meal but figured he had gone to the library to catch up on the work he was missing by helping her. She handed him her journal, complete with her vision of his talk with Theo Nott and induction into the Death Eaters. This was the vision she feared speaking of the most—she refused to acknowledge that she’d have to tell him of a wedding. He would become indignant, she feared.

 

She took his and they sat against the wall opposite the armor, side by side.

 

_22 September 1998_

 

_Granger,_

_My mindset during and after sixth year. When sixth year first began, I was still naïve, arrogant. I still held out hope that I could carry out the task the Dark Lord had instilled upon me. It didn’t take long before I figured out how far into a world of trouble I’d gotten myself._   
  


_I never meant to hurt Katie Bell or Ron Weasley. I didn’t even truly want to harm Dumbledore. I did everything with the constant fear that should I fail, my mother would be killed. Perhaps by my hand. I repaired that broken Vanishing Cabinet with the intent that it would be my escape route. When he found out about my plan to use it, he ordered the others to come through and assist me. He knew I’d fail in my task—he wanted me to die trying._

_I was so desperate, so overwhelmed, so utterly alone that I wished Death to come to me every day. I was in a very Dark place, and I wanted nothing more than to end my own life. I stood at the top of the Astronomy Tower once, close to Christmas of sixth year, and got right to the edge. The only thing that stopped me was the thought of what would happen to my mother._

_The feelings only intensified during my first attempt at a seventh year. The conditions with Snape and the Carrows in charge were abysmal and it was difficult to watch the younger students being subjected to the Unforgiveables. Even harder to perform them without wincing, to pretend as though it didn’t bother me._

_Then after Easter…after my inability to save you from my aunt. I tried to purposely provoke Greyback into slaughtering me. Still too cowardly to take my own life and wishing someone else to do my work for me._

_The feelings never left. Everyone wishes for Death to come to me, including me._

_\--Draco_

Hermione looked over at him and felt tears streaming down her face. His own eyes were sparkling as he remembered his past, through her story and he cleared his throat in an attempt to remain masculine. “I know you say your visions weren’t always accurate, but everything here was spot on, just as it happened.”

 

She looked at him, this beautiful broken man who still thought of ending his own life. “Draco,” her voice was a whisper so low, she barely heard herself speak.

 

He looked at her, a haunted, saddened look on his face. It tore at her and Hermione felt a ripping feeling in her chest as she watched his eyes move ever so slightly as he looked back into hers. She thought the pain in her chest, the lump in her throat, may have been enough to kill her. She reached over and took his hand to show him companionship. “Please don’t.”

 

He put his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, lacing his fingers with hers. She put her hand over his Mark, her fingertips under where his sleeve was pulled up, touching the bare skin. “You have me. I don’t want you gone…in fact, I want to help you see that life can still go on and you can be happy. You made it this far—we will figure out how to make people see you for who you are, Draco.”

 

He was quiet for a long while before his rasp broke into the silent corridor. “I like when you say that.”

 

“What?” she asked.

 

“My name. Not Malfoy. _Draco.”_

Hermione gave a sad smile. “Then you need to call me Hermione.”

 

“Not a chance—you’ll always be my Granger.”

 

o-o-o

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

Hermione hadn’t slept a wink the Tuesday night—too caught up in her own mind to even try to sleep. Her heart literally ached as she thought of what he’d written, what he felt on a daily basis. She didn’t want to think of what would happen if he followed through with his wishes, the emptiness she would feel at his loss. To feel so unwanted and overwhelmed by the world he dwelt in that he wanted to end it all—she didn’t even want to put herself in a position to understand that mindset. She just wanted to help pull him out of the dark abyss he’d settled into.

 

 _Not a chance—you’ll always be my Granger._ This phrase replayed over and over again as Hermione moved from class to class on Wednesday. _My Granger_. She wondered if he even realized what he’d said. He was slowly opening up to her, painstakingly drawing closer to her—after the Quidditch try-out debacle, for her birthday and then to assist her with detention.

 

When he was so raw with emotion the night before, it hadn’t been the right time to ask him about his conversation with Theo that she’d been privy to via her visions. He had confirmed that every detail happened just as she’d written—so he had had that conversation. Hermione hoped to ask him what the meaning of that conversation was when she saw him one of these evenings.

 

During dinner, he sat with Theo and the Greengrass sisters and she watched as he laughed genuinely at something the younger sister had said. Hermione wanted to be the one to make him laugh—to hear that deep rumbling was a soothing balm to her splintered soul. But she was glad that at least a few people were making the effort to interact with him. Malfoy was still so damaged, ruined by his life choices. From the Slytherin table, already dressed in his detention clothing, he looked her way and gave her a small half-smile. Hermione blushed at being caught staring and turned her attention to her Potions book, trying to drown out the voices of Ginny and Neville beside her.

 

She headed up to the Room of Hidden Things and found Malfoy sitting against the wall opposite of where the wall would reveal a door. He looked exhausted and downtrodden. He lifted his head away from the wall when he heard her footsteps and gave her a weak smile. “Can we just sit here for a while?”

 

Hermione sat next to him and crossed her ankles in front of her. “You okay?” she asked, bumping his shoulder with her own.

 

He was silent for a moment. “Yeah. I’m alright. I just need a moment before going back into that room. Crabbe and I had grown up together and he died just beyond that wall. Not to mention, the entire room burned in a fire—how do we even know what remains within?”

 

Hermione looked at him. He had his legs drawn up, his hands clasped and draped over his knees. He was staring at his hands as he spoke. “Draco…if this is going to bother you, or set you back into an episode, I can do this alone. This is my detention after all, and you shouldn’t have to help me. You didn’t make me hex Parkinson.”

 

He shook his head. “I told you I’d help. But let’s just sit a spell. I need a moment.”

 

She was silent as she stared at his hands, the way his thumb ran circles over his other hand absently. She listened to the soft sound of his breaths, even and measured as he tried to gather himself.

 

“I had always heard rumors of the Mirror of Erised, but I didn’t realize the rumors were true until sixth year. It was tucked away, just adjacent to the Vanishing Cabinet. I sat for hours staring at it,” Malfoy remarked, pulling his journal from beside him and handing it to her. “I am honestly afraid of what I might see, now that I’ve survived the War.”

 

Hermione was afraid of how she’d have to lie to him about what she saw. She knew, deep in her heart, this mirror would show her the same results as her obsidian one had. She leaned against the wall and flipped open to his newest entry.

 

_23 September 1998_

_Granger,_

_How about something lighter? I was obsessed with the Weird Sisters when I was around ten, and I idolized them to the point of wanting to be just like them. Dobby bought me a guitar with money I snuck from my father’s safe, and I taught myself to play the Weird Sisters’ entire catalog of music._

_I can still strum a little tune, but my music of choice has changed quite a bit. I prefer to play classical guitar these days. No one else knew any of this, except Dobby. I kept it hidden in a small room the elf had created for me in the back of my closet. My parents never went in there and I was too embarrassed to tell Crabbe, Goyle or Nott._

_\--Draco_

Hermione raised an eyebrow at him as he read of how he’d have a sweet baby one day. She had recounted his impossibly soft blond hairs, his large inquisitive grey eyes. She told of the photo on the wall, leaving out the fact that the woman had a scar on her hand to match the one she’d gotten at Malfoy Manor. He laughed at something and looked up. “My mother used to sing me that song about tiny dragons dreaming tiny dragon dreams. This is incredible. I’m going to be a father one day… _Married_. I can’t even imagine that.”

 

She smiled at him. The prospect of having a happy life appealed to him greatly, she could tell by the genuine smile he wore as he reread the passage. “I told you there was plenty to live for…to look forward to,” she told him.

 

“Granger, are you sure you don’t have a touch of Seer blood in you?” he asked her.

 

“I don’t see how I could. Neither of my parents is magical,” she told him with a skeptical shrug.

 

“Let me tell you something about your blood,” he began and her eyes darted up to his, leery of what he’d say next though he’d given her no reason to be.

 

He shifted to face her and took her hand, though he seemed uncertain at initiating touch, as his cheeks had a faint rosy hue to them. He lifted her arm and pulled her sleeve back to reveal the raised pink outline of a scar that read MUDBLOOD. “You are not the first witch in your bloodline. Even Muggle-borns have magical ancestors somewhere, perhaps a thousand years back even. Magic is not some scientific genetic mutation, Granger.”

 

Hermione’s head was spinning with the fact that he’d just used the phrase “scientific genetic mutation” in everyday conversation. Or was her head spinning because he was delicately holding her hand in one of his and using a single fingertip from his other to trace the carved letters on her arm? “I’m sorry I couldn’t stop this. That I didn’t fight to stop this,” he whispered to her, and his voice sounded more pained than she’d ever heard it.

 

His moods seemed to shift with the littlest things, and she tried to keep up. She watched the way the thumb of the hand that held hers palm-up ran soothing circles over her wrist. She drank in the sight of his long finger, so luminescent and pale against her own tanned flesh, tracing the letters so lightly that he may not have been touching her at all. Except his finger left a burning trail on her skin. “You minimized the torture as much as you could. If you had attacked her, you would have gotten us all killed. I can’t thank you enough for saving us that day.”

 

He scoffed quietly. “That was hardly saving you. I should have just killed her.”

 

“You did exactly what needed to be done in that moment,” she reassured him. “Because of your hesitation in identifying us, they never got the chance to call Voldemort. You saved us. You put a numbing charm over me so that I wouldn’t feel the full brunt of the Cruciatus. You…you got hurt from the chandelier. I remember seeing you in my hazy stupor with glass sticking out of you and blood everywhere.”

 

He lifted his face and she noticed for the first time that he had a few faded, white scars across his flesh—one near his eyebrow. Another close to his hairline. And still, a third, along his jaw. They were so faded, they were almost unrecognizable if one didn’t know what you look for. She reached out and ran her fingertip over his eyebrow then his jaw before dropping her hand.

 

“Are you ready to go in?” she asked tenderly.

 

Malfoy looked at the stone wall before them and let out a heavy sigh. He stood, holding her hand to help her up before dropping it. Hermione immediately felt colder without his touch and turned away so he wouldn’t see her disappointment. “I’m just going to ask it to reveal the Mirror.”

 

“Crabbe’s parents retrieved his body a few weeks after the Final Battle…but I just…Merlin, this is hard,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair and spinning around to turn his back on the emerging door.

 

Hermione finished tracing her path and came to stand next to him. “Well, it doesn’t help that you have Pansy Parkinson leading a crusade to have you put in Azkaban for his death. You can’t even grieve the loss of a friend.”

 

“Crabbe, and Goyle, may have been mostly lackeys to me. But we grew up together, you know? They’ve always just…been there. And now, they’re not. It’s so…surreal. Sometimes, I feel like I’ll wake up, the Slytherin Prince in my private Slytherin dorm down in the dungeons. Like it will all just go back to the way it was, before…all this,” he said, waving his hand at the door but speaking of something much greater than just the Fiendfyre.

 

Hermione shook her head sadly. “It will never go back to the way it was. We can’t dwell so much on the past; we need to look toward the future. There is no War looming over us anymore.”

 

“Isn’t there, though?” he asked her, his tone severe.

 

“Everything will get better. It has to,” she replied, reaching out for the doorknob.

 

She opened the door and the pair gasped in unison at the sight within. The entire room was a charred nightmare of ash and cinders. The stone walls had dark burn marks across them and a sea of ash, six inches deep, spread out before them. Sporadically, random trinkets had survived the Fiendfyre—a large metal Astronomy chart that still accurately recorded the moon cycles, the Vanishing Cabinet, and the Mirror of Erised among them. The Room was expansive ahead of them in its razed state and nothing was recognizable from four months prior.

 

Hermione felt Malfoy’s fingers brush hers, asking to be held and she laced her fingers with his shaking ones. “It’s still here, then. Dumbledore must have put extremely advanced protective spells on it.”

 

“It’s a historical artifact. It won’t take three days to move it from here, though,” Hermione replied.

 

“There has to be some reason why McGonagall wanted you to come here.”  
  


“She must have known you’d come with me. I think she wanted us to face this room again, maybe find closure for the death of your friend,” Hermione replied, squeezing his hand.

 

“My friend tried to kill you,” she heard him murmur.

 

She shrugged. “That’s neither here, nor there. You saved me from that, as well.”

 

“This place feels like a tomb,” he lamented, pulling her hand toward the Vanishing Cabinet. “I spent countless hours in here, trying to figure out a way to make myself disappear so I wouldn’t have to face killing Dumbledore.”

 

He ran a hand over the smooth surface of the Vanishing Cabinet. Hermione reached out and unlatched the door so it popped open. “How did it survive the fire?”

 

“Dumbledore wasn’t the only person who could do a strong protective charm. I did everything I could to this cabinet to ensure it would survive whatever may have befallen it,” he told her, his face screwed into a frown.

 

“How did you repair the connection? It’s a complicated magic, repairing magical connections.”

 

“ _Harmonia Nectere Passus_. Repeated almost nonstop. It took everything I had to concentrate all of my magic into restoring the coupling,” he replied, turning them away from it.

 

“Why didn’t you go to him immediately? The Order could have protected you,” she whispered.

 

Malfoy looked at her, training his silvery eyes on her own. “Protection? You mean like they _protected_ Lily and James Potter? Or Remus Lupin and my cousin? Or how they _protected_ Dumbledore himself? No thank you. I would rather ensure my mother remain alive by any means necessary.”

 

Hermione had never looked at it that way before. To her, the Order had always been the side of the right, the just, the Light. They were the ones who fought for their freedom. But this new perspective made her see the group of her friends and family differently, the flaws that splintered them. How protective were they, really? Malfoy was absolutely right in one regard—too many people had died under the Order’s watch: James and Lily, Sirius, Remus, Tonks, Dumbledore, Moody, Fred…

 

“I’m sorry,” she told him softly.

 

He sighed. “Let’s just get the mirror and get out of here. No use getting depressed right now.”

 

“It’s a huge mirror. Where are we going to bring it? It needs to be cleaned before we take it up to the Divination Tower.”

 

“We can bring it to my dorm. I’ll clean it tomorrow,” he told her.

 

They went and stood in front of the mirror, the surface of which was black with soot. “Thinking of scrying again, Granger?” he teased, attempting to lighten the mood some.

 

Hermione raised an eyebrow at him. “Why don’t you give it a go?”

 

“I’m no Seer,” he replied with a shrug.

 

“Yeah. Neither was I,” she retorted with a gentle laugh.

 

Malfoy dropped her hand and began circling the mirror, whispering every cushioning charm, protective charm and anti-shattering charm he could remember. “This thing easily weighs a few hundred pounds…we both need to work on levitating it down to the third floor.”

 

“On three, then,” she told him. “One, two, three. _Wingardium leviosa!_ ” they said together.

 

The mirror wobbled and lifted only marginally off the ground. “We’re going to have to be extremely careful. Let’s just go slow so we don’t get hurt,” she instructed and she raised an eyebrow as his cheeks pinkened and he cleared his throat.

 

“Let me be the one to back down the stairs. In case this thing slips and crushes one of us, at least it’ll be the pariah, not the princess,” he joked darkly.

 

She glared at him and he grinned back as he backed his way down the hallway. “So, Malfoy, tell me. What did you see in the mirror during sixth year?”

 

His bottom lip came out in a slight pout and she had to fight the urge to bite it. “So, it’s back to Malfoy again, then?” he asked, carefully navigating down the stairs.

 

Hermione rolled her eyes and bit back a smile that threatened to play on her lips. “Fine, _Draco._ What did you see, exactly?”

 

He was silent a moment, and Hermione thought his mood might shift back to brooding. But he bit his bottom lip as he held the side of the mirror and his wand, aimed toward the ground as they turned the corner. “I saw myself smiling, older. My one desire then was to make it through the War and to be happy in life.”

 

“What do you think you’ll see in it now?” she asked him curiously.

 

He shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. Perhaps the same. As I said, it frightens me to think about it.”

 

“It’s not predictive of the future. It simply tells you what you desire most. There’s nothing to be frightened of,” she told him as they went down yet another stairwell.

 

“Well, what do you think you’ll see, then?” he asked her.

 

 _You._ “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

 

“Oh, come now, Granger. There has to be something you pine after. Top marks in Transfiguration? A wedding with Weasley? A position as Minister for Magic?” he teased as they finally reached his door.

 

Hermione bit her lip. “Not Ron. I know that.”

 

Draco’s eyes shot to hers and a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Really?” he asked, intrigued.

 

She averted her eyes from his gaze and looked at the door. The mirror was significantly taller than the doorframe. He seemed to realize this at the same time and whispered a shrinking charm. The mirror shrunk to half of its size and suddenly Hermione burst into a fit of giggles.

 

He looked at her as though she’d lost her mind. “What is so amusing?” he asked.

 

“We could have just shrunk the mirror this whole time!” she replied.

 

He looked at the mirror and started laughing, too. “Top students at Hogwarts,” he joked, wiping his face with his hand as he laughed.

 

This brought on fresh laughs from Hermione at the sight of soot from his hands smearing across his face. “Precious, perfect Draco Malfoy, soiled and dirty. The indignity!”

 

He continued smirking and brought his finger to her face, smearing something on either of her cheeks. “There, now we’re even.”

 

He pulled the mirror into his sitting room and went to move his couch out of the way so the mirror would have a place to sit. She watched as he moved the couch without magic, the way the muscles in his back moved under the fabric of his shirt. “Ugh. I need a shower!” he exclaimed, taking in the dirt all over his clothing and skin as he stepped away from the mirror’s new resting place.

 

“Why don’t I come back tomorrow and we can clean this thing up?” she suggested, noting that her own hands were black.

 

He pretended to think about it for a moment. “Or you could come over and try your hand at scrying. Maybe I could see what you do. Before we wash the black film off, that is…I’m not even sure a scourgify will be enough for that task.”

 

Her heart started beating at the prospect of this happening. She had no way of controlling what she saw and if she could somehow project those sights to him, she’d have no way of censoring her visions. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

 

“Oh, come now. What’s there to be afraid of?” he asked her, running his hands under water in his kitchenette sink.

 

 _Everything._ “Nothing, I suppose. We can try if you want.”

 

He grinned and nodded once. “I do.”

 

“Tomorrow, then. Seven o’clock?”

 

“Make it six. Unless you don’t want to spend an extra hour with me?” he teased, raising a challenging eyebrow.

 

“Six it is,” she replied with a small smile.

 

She ambled slowly to her own room, still smiling to herself. Yes, there had been some sadness to their night. But they’d shared a good laugh. She absolutely loved the sound of it, the feel his deep rumbles made as they reverberated through her own chest. She went immediately into her own bathroom, intent on showering.

 

Hermione ran the water and then looked at herself in the mirror to survey the damage. Draco had drawn a ‘D’ on one cheek and an ‘M’ on the other, marking her skin with his initials. She felt a flutter in her chest as she traced the soot on her face.

 

o-o-o

 

Hermione sat in Draco’s oversized armchair the next evening and he perched on the arm next to her, reading each other’s journal entries. All she had written was one sentence. _I watched us watch the clouds roll in, though I much preferred the real experience._

“That’s cheating. You only wrote one sentence!” he told her.

 

“We just experienced this on Sunday. And it was so much better than the vision,” she told him. “Don’t whine.”

 

He leaned back against the back of the chair, his elbow bent over the head of the chair behind her as he looked down at his own handwriting in the journal she held.

 

_24 September 1998_

_Granger,_

_Obviously, there are people in this world who know about this next secret. But no one that I know personally. On two Saturdays a month, part of my probation has been to do some type of service for our community._

_St. Mungo’s has a special ward for children. There are War orphans. There are also children who have deformities—Pureblooded in some cases—whose parents just didn’t want them. If they didn’t fit the Pureblood mold, they were left there. There are Squibs who never got a Hogwarts letter when they turned eleven, never showed hope of being magical._

_Every other Saturday, I go to read to the younger children. They call me ‘Mr. Dragon.’ There are a few who really mean a lot to me—they draw me pictures and one girl baked cookies for me last time._

_These children, for the most part, have no idea who I am or what I’ve done. The older ones have an idea, but they’ve never said anything to me. They are so pure and innocent and I really enjoy my time with all of them._

_Perhaps one day you could accompany me?_

_\--Draco_

Hermione didn’t know what to make of this revelation. Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater, went and read to orphaned children? “Draco, why do you think you’ll never have hope of redemption? You’ve already started! If people knew this about you, people would see a different side of you.”

 

“If people knew this, there would be an uproar and I’d lose my visiting privileges,” he retorted, standing up.

 

He went to sit in front of the blackened mirror, cross-legged. He looked over his shoulder at her and patted the floor next to him. “Come along. No time like the present.”

 

 _Or the future. Please, for the love of Merlin, show the past._ Hermione’s nerves were eating her up. What if the mirror showed her stalking him in the library? Or their wedding again—she still hadn’t come up with a plan to tell him about that one? Or what if it showed something embarrassing and fresh, like them kissing?

 

She came to sit next to him and he held his hand out to her, palm up. She conjured a flame to burn in front of it, though only shadows flickered across the dulled surface. Taking his hand, palm to palm, she rested them on her knee. “We have to ask it a question. An intention. What do you want to see? For instance, when I asked it to show me what lies ahead for you, it showed me the baby.”

 

He was silent for a moment. “Will I ever overcome my past?”

 

She gave one nod and looked toward the mirror. “Stare at the mirror’s surface and drown out everything but that intention. Focus only on it giving you this answer.”

 

Hermione waved her wand and all of the lights in the room extinguished except the flame. Draco looked around and then gave her an excited smile. “Focus,” she told him and she turned to look at the mirror’s lackluster surface.

 

 _Show him that he will overcome his past._ She concentrated on the black abyss before her, the shadow of the flame flickering across the surface. It took entirely too long to lose the feeling of his hand in hers, his gentle breaths beside her. Finally, something began flickering on the surface before them. Draco took in a sharp breath beside her and she lifted their clasped hands to touch the scene playing across the darkness. He put his fingertip against the glass as well.

 

_They entered into a moderately sized store, wooden shelves lined with vials of all kinds. Vision-Draco was standing behind a counter, a sophisticated set of long white robes over his white dress shirt and black trousers. He had multiple potions brewing along a long counter behind him. The store smelled of dried flowers and handmade soaps. Hermione looked around and saw that Draco was standing next to her, his eyes drinking in the entire space before them._

_“My Apothecary,” he stated, turning to her with a big smile._

_A peek out of the window showed some traffic on a quiet street in Hogsmeade. “I guess your life’s goal will come true, then.”_

_“Look how old I look!” he told her, walking up to his vision-self._

_Hermione took in the sight of the Draco in her vision. He was in his mid-thirties, his hair tied neatly back into an elegantly wrapped ponytail, reminiscent of Lucius Malfoy but with significantly less arrogance._

_An older witch came into the store and vision-Draco gave her a kind smile. “Mrs. Bumble! Did the salve work?”_

_“Oh, yes, dear. Cleared the rash up quite nicely. I’m here for old Alford. He’s got a terrible cough, I’m afraid,” she told him._

_Vision-Draco put one finger up and came around the counter to lead the customer to a shelf. “I’ve got three different tinctures here to choose from. Is it a dry, hacking cough? Or a deep, wet one?”_

_“Dreadfully dry.”_

_“This one, then. It—”_

_At this moment a young girl, no older than ten burst into the store, tears streaming down her face. “Dad!”_

_Vision-Draco stood straight up and rushed toward the young girl. Draco and Hermione both moved closer to observe the girl. A beauty—creamy, milky complexion of her father, with large brown doe eyes and corn silk hair, wild and curly about her head. Hermione knew there was no mistaking she was the mother of this child, but Draco was circling the girl and his vision-self, inspecting her._

_“What’s happened Rosie-Posie?” he asked, wiping her tears._

_“You have no idea what they are saying about you! I got into an argument with Freddie Weasley and he told me that you were an evil man who did bad things to people. He said you were a Death Eater! It’s not true, is it, daddy?”_

_The real-Draco and the vision-Draco frowned in exactly the same manner. Vision-Draco knelt in front of his daughter and put a hand on either of her arms, looking her in the eye. “I…I…”_

_Mrs. Bumble came up behind where vision-Draco was stuttering through a conversation he clearly didn’t know how to begin. She put a hand on his shoulder and smiled down at Rose. “There was a time when people had to do things they were not proud of to save the people they loved. Your father was brave and faced evil from within his own home to save his family.”_

_“Did you hurt people?” Rosie asked him._

_Vision-Draco swallowed hard. “Not willingly.”_

_“Do you love your father, dear?” Mrs. Bumble asked._

_Rosie nodded up at the woman. “Has he been a good father to you and your brother?” the elderly woman asked._

_Again, the girl nodded, looking back down at her father’s pained face. She raised her hand and touched his face. “He’s the best.”_

_“Then don’t let anything anyone else says affect you,” the woman finished, straightening up._

_“Take the tincture, Mrs. Bumble. No cost. I’ll be past the house tomorrow morning to check and see if it’s working for Alford,” vision-Draco said, giving her a grateful smile._

_As the elderly witch left the store, he turned back to his daughter. “Where’s your mother and brother?”_

_At this moment, Ginny Weasley came ambling through the front door. “Merlin’s beard, Rose Malfoy. You cannot run away like that! Your mum is in a tizzy!”_

_Ginny looked up at vision-Draco and gave him a weak smile. “She’s panicking. I’m going to let her know Rose is with you.”_

_Vision-Draco nodded. “I’m closing up now…we need to have a talk, huh, ladybug?” he asked his daughter, who tossed her arms around her father’s neck._

The scene began to blur and they were back in Draco’s sitting room. He looked at her, his eyes haunted once more. “My children are going to suffer because of me.”

 

Hermione shook her head. “You’re missing the point. Mrs. Bumble _defended_ you. The public will be on your side. Now that you’ve seen this, though, you know to tell your children about your past earlier than ten. Explain to them exactly as she did, that you had to do some unfavorable things to save your mother.”

 

“I’d like to be alone right now,” he told her and she nodded, looking at the place where their two fingertips had left a zigzagging snake trail on the soot that caked the mirror’s surface.

 

“I’ll come back tomorrow. Same time,” she told him, standing and leaving as he remained on the floor.

 

o-o-o

 

Draco sat on the floor, staring into the Mirror of Erised. He had spent the entire night before hand-cleaning the ash and soot from every crevice. No matter how many times he stepped away and came back the mirror kept showing him the same scene: him sitting in a chair, Hermione Granger leaning into him from behind with her arms around his neck.

 

Draco hadn’t entertained the idea of seriously courting Granger. They’d flirted harmlessly and he thoroughly enjoyed it. Without his father’s negativity in his head and the other Slytherins badmouthing her constantly, he took notice of her little nuances and some of her unique physical features. The more time he spent with her, the more thoughts of her crept into his mind during random times of the day—just earlier, he was in Herbology with the Hufflepuffs and snipped lily leaves for the Potions supply and he wondered what her favorite flower was.

 

Now, the mirror was showing her to him. His subconscious knew what he had refused to acknowledge—he wanted her. That little girl in their shared vision looked like the perfect mix of the two of them. He knew who the girl’s mother was, there was no mistaking that hair or those large doe eyes.

 

There was a soft knock at his door and his stomach flopped as he called out, “Come in!”

 

Granger came through the door, looking down at him sitting in front of the cleaned mirror. She clicked the door shut softly and walked toward him slowly, seemingly to gauge his mood for the evening. “You cleaned it! I wish you would have waited for me!” she told him.

 

He stood and ran a hand over the nape of his neck awkwardly, trying to put on a calm façade. “I wanted to get it done with. We’ll get it up to the Divination Tower tonight and then we can forget about it.”

 

She peeked into it and quickly averted her eyes, turning her back to the mirror to retrieve her journal from her schoolbag for him. He wanted desperately to ask her what she saw, but then she might ask him the same. How was he supposed to answer that truthfully?

 

He took the journal from her and indicated to the table where his waited for her. He leaned against the desk and flipped open to the latest page of a series of letters written in her loopy, messy handwriting. He smiled slightly at the sight of it—it was rushed and he could see where her quill had rested as she thought of what to write next, little blobs of ink spreading.

 

_25 Sept 1998_

_Draco,_

_I would guess that, since you know I saw you with a newborn and we both saw you with a child, that you’re going to get married. I saw the ceremony. You were nervous before—Theo, of all people, had to talk some sense into you before you walked up._

_It took place in a vineyard on a sunny day. You wore a cream-colored suit, with lavender accents. In fact, there was lavender everywhere. Even Lavender Brown. Whom we both know to be dead right now. So, this is the first extreme inaccuracy I’ve seen so far._

_Your mother and father, both, were in attendance. McGonagall officiated the handfasting ceremony. It was quite beautiful._

_You’re going to be happy._

_\--Hermione_

Draco looked up to where she was staring at his “letter.” He’d taken a leaf out of her book and written one sentence. _I am not the Slytherin sex god everyone thinks I am._ She could take from that whatever she wanted.

 

He looked at her as the dim green-lighting of his sitting room shined off her thick mane of curls. She had her brow furrowed and was biting her lip. He had noticed that she had conveniently made this a _very_ brief entry. Even more conveniently, she’d left out the identity of the bride. He didn’t need her to write it. He _knew_.

 

She looked up at him and closed his journal. She looked like she was going to be ill and he knew it was because her nerves were eating her up at the thought of him reading about this. “We’ve got a lot of work to do if we’re to get married, Granger. Considering we’re _barely_ on friendly terms now—I had to _earn_ the password to your blanket fort, for Merlin’s sake,” he said teasingly, raising an eyebrow at her even as he felt his face burning.

 

Her lips parted and he could see the calculating behind her eyes as she tried to formulate an answer. He laughed lightly. “Calm down, Granger. It’s _divination_. If I believed in it, I would still be enrolled in the class,” he lied, trying to soothe her embarrassment.

 

She laughed lightly. “True.”

 

“Come on. Let’s get this mirror up to the Tower. We’ve got that Potions essay to finish and I’d like to edit mine for the third time,” he told her.

 

She gave him a look like she adored the fact that he triple checked his schoolwork and together they levitated the half-shrunk mirror. They walked in near silence. Draco could tell that she was still embarrassed. He didn’t have much to say as thoughts of her ran through his head.

 

He may have been able to joke with her to try and alleviate her nerves. But his own were singing within him. He absolutely believed in her Divining abilities—she’d already accurately told him of three different visions that were completely true. He was going to marry her, they were going to have children, people were going to vouch for his character. It was all overwhelming. They hadn’t even kissed! Now, he was faced with an entire future with her.

 

“Draco…what did Theo mean when he asked you, ‘What about Granger?’”

 

Her gentle voice pulled him out of the suffocating well he’d fallen into. What would he say to that? _The truth._ “I wanted to befriend you when we were younger. I needed someone intellectual and passionate. I couldn’t exactly talk about ancient runes of the Celtic druids with Crabbe or Goyle, could I? And the Ravenclaws…they lacked the passion, the ambition. I wanted to talk to you because I knew you could relate. We could hold _real_ conversations.”

 

She looked at him once more. “Why didn’t you just walk up to me and say something, then?”

 

He scoffed. “Yeah, right. And have to face Potter and Weasley? Would you have even entertained the idea of talking with me? We were foes.”

 

She looked guilty and gnawed on her bottom lip as she climbed backward up the winding staircase. “We wasted so many years. Over stupid, trivial stuff that didn’t even matter.”

 

Draco couldn’t agree more. “Well, we can move forward now. You now know five things about me that no one else does.”

 

She gave him a weak smile. “True. You’ve earned a blanket fort tomorrow, after your visit to St. Mungo’s.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11:

 

Draco was not due to arrive at her dorm for another hour, and Hermione’s nerves were on end as she prepared the blanket fort. She had put on an old record of her parents’—The Four Tops. The oldies music had always comforted her. She had felt pitiful that morning, thinking of how her father used to dance with her to the Motown group—whom he called the American Beatles in jest.

 

She moved two tables toward one another and then levitated a conjured strip of wood to create a tented effect. Draco was rather tall, at least a full foot taller than her, so she made sure he’d have plenty of head room as she draped a few blankets atop the structure. The notion of creating a blanket fort to sit in with _Draco Malfoy_ was enough to make her dizzy.

 

Hermione enchanted a few strings of Christmas lights—which she’d _borrowed_ from the castle’s stores of decorations—to twinkle and used a sticking charm to weave it throughout the blankets. She bit her lip and surveyed the structure. Was it too romantic? Should she take the lights out and spread the tented quilts further so the setting wouldn’t be so intimate?

 

As she stared at the fort, contemplating exactly how she should change it, all she could think about was how close they would inevitably be. Draco’s _perfectly shaped_ soft pink lips popped into her mind and her heart raced at the thought of kissing him in their little refuge. _Sweet Merlin_.

 

Then, the song changed on the record player, and her childhood favorite came on. She fought a small smile and began to belt out the words. _“Sugar pie, honey bunch…you know that I love you…”_ she slid into a dance, extending her arm and laughing to herself as she spun around.

 

All glee was wiped from her face when she spun and saw Draco standing in the doorway to her bedroom, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, his leg crossed over the other with toes to the ground, a bemused and handsome smirk on his face. He raised an eyebrow and his smile turned devilish. “Tell me, Granger, are you always this silly? Dancing alone in your room?”

 

“I-I didn’t expect you for another hour!” she choked out, her face burning scarlet.

 

“And yet, here I am,” he said, holding his arms out in a haughty manner.

 

The look he was giving her was infuriatingly sexy and she wanted to punch him and kiss him in equal parts. She narrowed her eyes at him, summoning some of her Gryffindor bravery. “I am always far too silly for my own good…besides…what about you?”

 

“What about me?” he asked with a shrug.

 

She put a mock brooding look on her face and dropped the bass in her tone to mimic his posh voice. “Are you always so serious?”

 

He laughed at her attempt at an impression of him. “I’m always too serious for my own good,” he replied.

 

“Well,” she felt her heart thrumming as she took a step forward, “let loose a little. It’s just us.”

 

She stepped up to him and took his hand and pulled him forward into the small amount of floor space still left in her bedroom. He raised an eyebrow at her, his bashful smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth. Hermione moved her shoulders ridiculously, retrieving her wand and holding up to her mouth to sing into it as she spun around once more, mimicking some of the movements of the men singing that her father had taught her. _“When I call your name…girl, it starts the flame…”_

Draco let out a throaty, breathy laugh and watched as she twirled. Hermione shook her head. “Uh uh…you can’t just stand there!” she told him, tossing her wand on the bed and moving to take hold of his hips.

 

She pushed and pulled his hips, one side at a time to create a washing-machine motion. He bit his bottom lip as he smiled, placing one hand over his eyes in shy embarrassment and the other on her waist. “It’s okay. I won’t tell anyone that the almighty Draco Malfoy danced in the privacy of Hermione Granger’s bedroom to muggle music,” she said quietly as she leaned into him.

 

He separated two of his fingers over his eyes and peeked at her from between them before dropping his hand to settle on the other side of her waist. “No one would believe you anyway.”

 

Hermione laughed. “Probably true.”

 

“You are the strangest witch I have ever met,” he told her.

 

“Thank you? I think?” she replied, giving him a look.

 

He looked down at her and quickly moved his gaze from her steady stare to look at her shoulder. She was wearing a soft burgundy sweater with a wide opening on top, draped down so one shoulder was exposed, a splash of freckles over her skin. “Definitely a good thing. I’ve never met another witch with so much…vibrancy.”

 

Her heart started fluttering once more and she moved away from him when the record ended and the room fell silent. Still feeling sentimental, she changed the record to another classic—Frank Sinatra. “I’d imagine this is a little closer to what you are accustomed to? Big band and swing to break up all the waltzes you had to do at stuffy Pure-blood functions?”

 

Draco scoffed with a smirk. “Did you see me dance at the Yule Ball? It was an atrocity to mankind.”

 

“Hmm…something the perfect Slytherin isn’t so perfect at?” she teased, stepping into him once more.

 

“I’m also a shit singer, though I’m certain you saw that when I was singing ‘Tiny Dragons’ to our future babe?” he asked, putting his hand up for her to take.

 

She narrowed her eyes at him, feeling the tops of her ears burning as she took his hand. He toed off his shoes and kicked them aside and stepped a little closer to her, taking her waist. “Don’t be ashamed, Granger…we’ll get there one day. We’ve both seen it,” he whispered, his mouth close to her ear before he pulled back.

 

He began leading her in a weak semblance of a swinging dance. Hermione looked up toward him from under her eyelashes. Was he admitting to her that he believed in her visions? Was he teasing her? His tone didn’t seem teasing or displeased. He was looking out over her head and smiling slightly. He was _definitely_ a terrible dancer, but he managed not to step on her feet. He spun her around and she twirled back into his arm, her hair brushing against his face as she tucked into his chest before twirling back out.

 

Hermione had danced with Harry plenty of times during their hunt for horcruxes, a way to pass time and stave off the loneliness and betrayal Ron left in his wake. Even he was a better dancer than Draco, but Hermione had never felt the electricity she felt now. Draco was bumbling, nervous, shy. He was trying—for her, she could tell—to come out of his sullen shell.

 

His deep rumbling laughs, throaty and raspy and sexy, were driving her near madness. He had admitted that he accepted their future, but they were in no way close enough yet to take things to the next step. But, with his warm body close to hers, his breathy laughs tickling her face and blowing curls away from her forehead, she wanted nothing more than to kiss him.

 

He dipped her low at the end of the song and she squealed with delight at the feeling of almost falling but being held up by his strong arm. She grinned up at him as he raised a playful eyebrow at her. “Did you bring the goods?” she asked.

 

He laughed and lifted her upright and dropped her hand to go out into her sitting room. He retrieved a bag, stuffed full of shrunken pillows and blankets and lifted it to show her. He also had a basket, filled with various foods he’d nicked from the kitchens on his way up. “Don’t put the fort in the sitting room, where there’s plenty of room. Put it in the small room, why don’t you?” he commented.

 

She furrowed her brow. “My room is…cozier.”

 

 _Shit._ This looked awfully presumptive. She watched as he reached behind the tented blankets and cranked her window open. “I hope you don’t mind…I like to listen to the rain,” he told her.

 

She shrugged. “Not at all.”

 

Draco moved to his bag of pillows and blankets and began retrieving them, enlarging them to normal size. He moved to put it into the fort and she put a hand on his arm. “You worked so hard to earn that password, or in this case, phrase. You think you’re going in without at least saying it?” she teased him.

 

He rolled his eyes but humored her. “Fine. _I’m a pretty peacock._ ”

 

Hermione laughed and gestured to the structure. “As you were.”

 

He stacked pillows and blankets up, placing a cushioning charm on each to make them extra soft. He crawled on his hands and knees to plop some in the back to rest their heads on. “Okay, I think it’s ready,” he told her, leaning up on his haunches and smacking his thighs. “I like the lights…they were a nice touch,” he commented, standing.

 

She realized that at this point, they would be expected to actually go _into_ the fort and she was nervous as hell. She couldn’t back out now, and everything in her was screaming at her to not even try. She wanted to spend time with him, in close quarters. She wanted to talk to him, late into the night.

 

The room was growing dark as the storm blocked the little sunlight that still remained outside her window, the evening growing nigh. There was a fire crackling pleasantly in her fireplace and the Christmas lights twinkling pleasantly from within the blankets. The entire thing was much too romantic and she wondered if he was feeling the same way. He had agreed to this, so he knew what he was getting into. And he’d still shown up.

 

He walked over to her bookshelves, biting his lip as he turned away from her. He was anxious, too. “ _The Life and Poetry of William Ernest Henley,”_ he stated, reading the spine.

 

“Do you enjoy poetry?” she asked, coming to stand next to him.

 

He looked down at her and sighed. “Well, how about a bonus _sixth_ secret?”

 

“Oh?”

 

“When I was young, I spoke incredibly quickly. My mother had me read poetry aloud to her, teaching me the proper cadence to get the feeling and emotions across. It helped slow my speech to a normal tempo,” he confided.

 

Hermione pulled the book from the shelf. “He wrote an incredible poem, one that I think would really resonate with you.”

 

She flipped open the book and showed him the one she meant. He read it over, his lips moving slightly. “Aloud?” she voiced.

 

He looked down at her and gave her a weak half smile. “Shall we retire to the fort?” he asked gesturing to it.

 

Her heart in her throat, she smiled and retrieved his goody basket of food and crawled into the fort, hyperaware that his eyes were probably on her bum the entire time. He cleared his throat as she plopped on her back, her head against his pillows. The inside of the tent smelled of him—the fresh earthy cedar tones. All Hermione wanted was to bury her face in his pillows and inhale that scent. She refrained and watched as he crawled into the fort. Watching him advance toward her, his weight pressing into blankets and pillows, her face flushed.

 

He lay on his stomach and braced the book on the pillow next to hers. He was leaning up on his elbows, his ankles crossed. “Oh, this is so embarrassing, Granger.”

 

She reached over and tapped his hip with her knuckles. “It’s just us. Read,” she instructed.

 

“So bossy,” he murmured under his breath before clearing his throat.

 

_“Out of the night that covers me,_

_Black as the pit from pole to pole,_

_I thank whatever gods may be_

_For my unconquerable soul._

_In the fell clutch of circumstance_

_I have not winced nor cried aloud._

_Under the bludgeonings of chance_

_My head is bloody, but unbowed._

_Beyond this place of wrath and tears_

_Looms but the Horror of the shade,_

_And yet the menace of years_

_Finds and shall find me unafraid._

_It matters not how straight the gate,_

_How charged with punishments the scroll,_

_I am the master of my fate,_

_I am the captain of my soul.”_

Hermione allowed his soothing deep voice reverberate through her as he read, with perfect cadence and agility. He finished and was quiet for a moment. She thought perhaps she had gone too far, that he was uncomfortable with the talk of his mentality. But he looked over at her and nodded. “I’m trying to be the captain of my soul, to get it back from the Dark Lord’s dead clutches.”

 

She lifted her hand to his face and brushed her fingertips over his jaw, the faint scar that still rested there. She dropped her hand and rolled into her stomach as well, brushing his shoulder with her own. “I hope you can see that you’re so much more than a prior Death Eater. What happened to you was…horrific, to say the least. I don’t know everything you’ve seen…or _done_. But, I’ll listen if you ever want to tell me.”

 

“I couldn’t put that on you. My nightmares should be my own to suffer through,” he told her, staring down at the pages of the book.

 

“I have nightmares, too,” she reminded him.

 

“Granger…I have done things that…are despicable. I have seen so much death and destruction,” he whispered.

 

She wound her arm under his and took his hand. “I’ve done…illegal and…difficult things as well.”

 

“Have you ever killed anyone? Watched someone die because of you?” he asked broodingly, dropping from his elbows and shoving one arm under his pillow as he lay and faced her, their hands still clasped between them.

 

Hermione mirrored him and dropped to her side, pulling their clasped hands closer to her own chest. “My parents.”

 

He gave her a bewildered look. “You…you killed your parents?”

 

She bit her lip. “Not physically. I…I placed a memory charm on them. I erased myself from their lives completely, gave them a new identity and sent them to Australia.”

 

“That explains why Yaxley couldn’t find them,” he murmured and she winced.

 

A tear slid from her eye, over the bridge of her nose and splashed against the pillow. He pulled his hand from under his pillow and traced the slick trail with his fingertip. “Don’t cry, Hermione. At least they’re safe.”

 

She nodded and he ran his hand down her arm and it rested on her wrist where she still held his other hand. “Have you gone to Australia?” he asked softly.

 

She nodded again. “Yeah. I went with Arthur Weasley. It-It was too strong. Too much time had passed. We couldn’t bring them back safely and I didn’t want to risk causing them more damage.”

 

He leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. “I am so sorry. I wish there was something I could do.”

 

She cleared her throat and wiped her face with the sleeve of her sweater. “Yes, well. No use crying over the past, is there?”

  
“Granger. You spend so much time trying to mosaic all of my fucked-up pieces together. When are you going to acknowledge that you’re hurting, too?”

 

Hermione stared at him and he was looking at her, his pewter eyes sparkling in earnest in the warm glow of the twinkling lights. “I’d rather be the strong one. I want to be the silly, happy-go-lucky one that pulls you out of the Darkness. I can’t very well do that if I dwell on my own problems. Especially since I have already attempted to resolve this issue and it was unsuccessful. It’s time to move forward.”

 

He repositioned so that his bottom hand held hers and lifted his other hand to brush her hair over her shoulder. “I am not very competent in revealing my feelings to people, but I _am_ trying. I’m even worse at comforting others, honestly. But…you’re hurting in silence, and that is _not_ healthy. I want to try to help you as well.”

 

Hermione gave him a weak smile and he dropped his hand from her hair to rest between them. “You’re fierce. I don’t know how you go every day without caving and having a complete meltdown,” he told her, his features admiring as he spoke.

 

“I’m hard-headed and determined,” she corrected with a small laugh.

 

“I won’t argue there,” he remarked with a smirk.

 

She used her toe to kick his shin playfully. “Ow, witch! I’ll have you know, my delectable skin bruises like a peach,” he growled, narrowing his eyes as he put his leg over her toes to keep her from doing it a second time.

 

Hermione’s entire leg sang with electricity, from the point where her toes were pinned under his shin all the way up to her hip. They were close to one another, their positioning intimate. She wanted desperately to kiss him—those perfect lips were so close to her own. They were going to end up together, they both knew it. He was seemingly accepting of it. The pace was killing her slowly.

 

“How was your day with the children?” she asked him, trying to occupy her thoughts with anything else besides his rosy, plump, luscious lips.

 

He smiled widely then and sat up. “Hold on.”

 

He scooted out of the blanket fort and went to his discarded bag as she watched. He came back with a piece of parchment in his hands. He crawled back into the fort and sat up, handing the parchment to her with a smile. She looked down at a basic drawing, clearly done by someone very young. It was stationary, unmoving. A picture of someone, clearly Draco, flying on the back of a fat dragon. In the corner, it read ‘Mr. Dragon’. In the bottom corner, ‘Love, Alya’.

 

“She’s too young to be able to use magic, so she couldn’t make the picture move, but I think you get the idea,” he told her, clearly proud of the drawing.

 

“How old is she?” Hermione asked politely, smiling at the tenderness on his face.

 

“Eight.”

 

“Alya…the name of the Serpentis constellation…is she one of the Pure-blooded children you spoke of?” Hermione asked him, handing him the picture.

 

He scoffed. “Yeah. She is. She’s deaf and mute. But she is by no means ignorant. Her parents simply didn’t have the time to dedicate to her care.”

 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Hermione told him as she watched him use a sticking charm to stick the parchment to the inside of the blanket fort.

 

“I would love for you to meet her. And the others,” he said, settling down on his side once more, holding his head up with a bent elbow.

 

“Well, the next Saturday you go, I’ll come along,” she promised.

 

“There’s more,” he told her, his cheeks pinkening lightly.

 

She raised a questioning eyebrow. “What’s that?”

 

“Theo may have written to my mother and told her that you and I were…becoming friendly,” he started.

 

“Your mother? Why would Theo write to your mother?” she asked, confused.

 

“His mother died when he was a child. My mother always treated him like a second son,” he shrugged. “He’s my brother.”

 

Hermione could appreciate that sentiment. Harry was her brother. “Your mother is pretty…intimidating. Is she angry? Upset that her son would sully his reputation with a mudblood?” she tried to joke, though his features darkened.

 

“She wants to meet you,” he clarified.

 

“Meet…me?”

 

He nodded. “Yes. She wrote me almost immediately, stating she wanted to meet the witch who was championing for her son.”

 

The Malfoy matriarch wanted to _meet_ her? “Okay,” she told him slowly.

 

“She won’t hex you,” he told her. “I think you’ll find that you and her are quite similar.”

 

“Your mother is the picture of Pure-blooded, aristocratic upbringing. I’m…not. How could I possibly have anything in common with Lucius Malfoy’s wife?”

 

“Do not hold my father’s bad choices against her.”

 

She looked at him as he pushed his arm under the pillow once more and settled down, looking tired and non-confrontational. “I’ll go.”

 

“Are you free this Saturday? She’d like to have us round for tea.”

 

“Of course. And the following Saturday, you’ll bring me to meet little Alya and the others?” she asked him.

 

He gave her a genuine smile. “If you’d like that.”

 

“I would,” she replied.

 

The fire outside of the blanket fort was dying down and her room was dark beyond the Christmas lights. The rain was still falling heavily beyond the window, and for a few moments, they just sat quietly and listened to the fat drops plop into the puddles beyond. He pulled a blanket up and over himself, then raised an eyebrow at her. He raised the corner of the blanket to her, to indicate that she should get under as well. She tucked her toes under his calf once more and he removed his large, ornate watch and tossed it behind his head. He ran a hand through his hair and tucked his face into the pillow for a moment, almost as though he was trying to wipe the tiredness from his eyes.

 

Her mind started racing as she thought of the implications of his getting cozier, getting under a blanket, removing articles of clothing. Admittedly, it was just his watch, which probably bothered him with the sheer weight of the platinum. _Oh my gods!_ Was he intending to make a night of it? He didn’t look like he had any intention of leaving any time soon. Did he make it a habit of spending nights in females’ rooms?

 

 _I’m not the Slytherin sex god everyone thinks I am._ What the bloody hell did that even mean? Was he _worse_ than the rumors that surrounded him in their earlier years? Hermione had heard quite a few raunchy stories from the Slytherin and Ravenclaw girls about their dates with him.

 

He peeked one eye open. “I can practically _hear_ you overthinking things, Granger. What’s going on in that crowded head of yours?”

 

She worried her bottom lip between her teeth and shook her head. Draco smirked and opened both eyes, leaning his head up. “What? I’m intrigued…you look positively _abashed_.”

 

She groaned and buried her face in the pillow, nearly coming unglued when she inhaled that heady scent that clung to the fabrics of his pillowcase. She flexed her toes, wiggling them beneath the weight of his leg. “I was…” her voice was muffled.

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,” he said, grinning.

 

“Ah, blast. I said, I was wondering what you meant in your last journal entry.”

 

Draco let out a hearty, gleeful laugh. “Merlin, Granger. You’re nothing if not subtle,” he told her sarcastically. “You wait until we are sharing a blanket in less than five feet of shared space to ask about my love life.”

 

“No. I was _thinking_ about your love life. You pried it out of me,” she corrected.

 

He shook his head, his smile falling slightly as he realized he’d have to answer her. “None of the rumors are true.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I never went on dates with even half the girls who claimed I did. I definitely didn’t snog the majority of them. And I slept with _none_ of them.”

 

Was he admitting he was just as inexperienced as her? “Never?”

 

He turned over on his back and flopped his head back. “Fuck, Granger. Drag it out of me, why don’t you?”

 

“It’s okay…I’m in the same boat,” she told him quietly.

 

He looked over at her with wide eyes. “Really? No Weasley?”

 

It was her turn to scoff as she rolled onto her back as well and angled her head toward his. “Definitely not. He’s not…my type.”

 

“I always thought you fancied him.”

 

“So did I,” she confessed.

 

“What happened?” he asked her.

 

“He left. I understand why. But if he can leave once when the going gets tough, he can leave again. I need someone who is willing to stay and fight for those he loves,” she told him.

 

Draco had stayed put in a home inhabited by a megalomaniac to fight for those he loved. He hadn’t run away like some coward in the face of evil. Hermione knew she shouldn’t harbor a grudge against Ron for this, but she couldn’t help it.  She’d trusted him and he’d betrayed them. She wondered if Draco understood the underlying meaning in her words.

 

“I am a coward in many ways. But I fought for my family,” he said softly.

 

Hermione felt for his hand above the blanket over them and interlaced her fingers with his. “I know.”

 

They were silent for a beat. His breathing was growing heavier next to her and she thought he might have fallen asleep until, “So, no Viktor Krum, either?” his raspy voice sounded.

 

Hermione let out a quiet laugh. “No. No one.”

 

He hummed at the back of his throat quietly and within moments, Hermione was certain that he had finally drifted to sleep. She put her head back into the pillow and stared at the twinkling lights above them. She sighed, a small smile playing at her lips and tapped the lights with her wand, extinguishing all light in the room except the pale moonlight that had begun to filter through the thinning rain clouds. She listened to the rain and angled her head even closer to his, nuzzling his hair with her nose lightly, bringing her shoulders closer to his. He was longer and taller than her, and his arm was bent slightly to accommodate holding her hand. Her feet fell just below his knee and she burrowed her toes beneath his warm leg again, scooting closer to him before she put her head back and closed her eyes as well. The gentle hum of his magic mixed with hers pleasantly as the rain outside began to quiet and the night turned calm.

 

o-o-o

 

 

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12:

 

When soft light began to filter into her room, Hermione opened her eyes and the events of the day before came flooding back. Draco was already awake beside her, with Crookshanks curled up on his chest, purring loudly as Draco scratched behind his ears. “Crooks, leave him alone,” she croaked.

 

“He’s all right,” the blond replied, running his hand down the half-kneazle’s back.

 

Intuitive little Crookshanks gave his mistress a smug look and rolled his head over as he turned upside down and curled up, exposing his fluffy belly for rubs. Draco complied and Crookshanks purred louder than ever. Hermione let out a laugh. “He likes you…he never likes anyone,” she told him, using her finger to run over the soft ginger fur. “He used to attack Ron’s ankles.”

 

“Yes, well, I’m sure cats all flee at the sight of Weasley’s gruff mitts coming at them,” he snorted, stretching carefully so not to disturb the animal.

 

Hermione raised an eyebrow at his choice of words and he repositioned the animal so he could sit up. “I’d better go,” he muttered, suddenly awkward.

 

“Stay a little longer…I’ll make us some tea,” she said, scooting out of their warm cocoon.

 

“I think I’ve overstayed my welcome in your room,” he replied, collecting and shrinking his items.

 

Hermione moved to make herself a cup of tea, disappointment flooding her irrationally. They’d spent the entire evening and night together, but she didn’t feel ready to part just yet. He was putting his watch back on and he came to stand behind her, placing a hand on her back. “Thanks for a nice time,” he told her and then he was gone.

 

o-o-o

 

After not seeing Draco again on Sunday, Hermione was anxious to get to their shared Potions class on Monday. She entered the room and he was already seated in the furthest back corner of the dim room, his face peering down at his hands folded on the table. She knew the instant he realized she entered the room, because his stormy greys looked up at her from under blond eyelashes. He kept his head angled downward and she wished she could read his mind.

 

When Slughorn had one person from each pair go to the supply cupboards, she noticed he went instead of Theo. She pushed Ginny down and offered to go, racing others and nearly knocking over a seventh year Slytherin to reach him. She reached into the same cabinet where he was retrieving lacewing flies and leaned into him to whisper. “Hey.”  
  


He cleared his throat and gave her a nod. “Granger.”

 

He collected his ingredients and turned on his heel, walking quickly to where Theo was waiting with a raised eyebrow. Hermione stared after him, her mouth parted as she tried to process his quick departure. Theo narrowed his eyes at her, questioning and she shrugged. Draco’s attitude was cold and abrupt. Had she done something?

 

They had spent what she easily considered to be one of the best days of her life together and he had _thanked_ her. And now, he was acting coldly toward her. She slumped back to her seat next to Ginny and sat down dejectedly. The redhead noticed her frown and looked back toward the Slytherin. “What’s going on?”

 

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “We had a nice time on Saturday and now he’s acting like we’re back in third year!”

 

“ _’Had a nice time?’_ What does that mean? Had a nice time doing _what_ exactly?” Ginny pressed under her breath as Hermione began to slice frog livers.

 

Hermione didn’t want to answer that. Her time in the blanket fort with Draco was intimate, private. “Talking. He came to my common room and we talked,” she lied, feeling guilty about not revealing the whole truth.

 

“You just spent time _talking_?”

 

Hermione huffed. “Yes. Talking,” she told her, irritated that Ginny was discounting what had happened.

 

She felt like, even though they truly had only talked, they’d made leaps and bounds in their friendship. That was, until his cold demeanor at the supply cupboard. “So why is he brooding sexily in the corner?” Ginny asked, stirring the cauldron’s contents.

 

Hermione glanced over her shoulder and found that he was, in fact, scowling into his cauldron as Theo whispered to him. “I have no idea what I’ve done.”

 

When class was over, he bolted before everyone else, leaving Theo to bottle their potion. Hermione wanted to ask Theo what was going on, but Daphne Greengrass was talking his ear off already. She followed Ginny out, her heart heavy.

 

o-o-o

 

Draco hadn’t attended a single meal in the Great Hall all of Monday. Hermione headed to the desk that used to be hers. She peered around, and found her luck was spent. He was nowhere in the library. She sat down at her old desk to work on a Charms essay, which felt like an invasion of _his_ personal space somehow.

 

o-o-o

 

On Tuesday, he saw her as he left his Herbology lesson and she made her way to the greenhouses for her own. He caught sight of her and she saw him tuck something purple into his pocket and scamper to join Theo and Daphne, as they spoke animatedly about something. He refused to meet her gaze as they crossed paths.

 

His icy disposition was baffling to say the least. She had dropped her journal in his slot Sunday night, and still had yet to receive it back or see any sign of his. Hermione feared he was sculpting a masterpiece of a rejection letter in her journal.

 

At dinner, he left the Great Hall as soon as she entered. Hermione took her seat next to Ginny, who was shoveling food on to her plate, wincing at a sore place on her ribs. “Quidditch practice kicked my arse tonight,” she explained.

 

Hermione gave her a small nod and retrieved a roll and a few bites of chicken, mostly for show because she was not hungry in the slightest. She picked at her food and Ginny bumped her shoulder with her own. “Is the ferret still being a git?”

 

The brunette just gave a shrug and bent to retrieve her schoolbag. “I’m heading to the library…Arithmancy…”

 

She sat, alone, at his desk in the back corner, his absence slowly turning this space into her own once more.

 

o-o-o

 

On Wednesday, with no shared classes, she didn’t see him once. He must have eaten before meal times or forgone food altogether.

 

Hermione sat on her bed that evening, angry tears threatening to fall from her eyes and splash on the aged parchment of the Marauder’s Map as she stared at his dot. It was positioned in the same spot for hours—probably his bed if she had to guess.

 

She drew her knees into her chest as she sat against her headboard, wiping at her face angrily when warm streaks did make their way over her cheeks.

 

o-o-o

 

It was Thursday, the first of October, when she finally spoke to him once more. Hermione had gone the entire day without seeing him, yet again. There was no mistaking that he was solidly ignoring her by this point. They were headed to Ancient Runes, with Hermione in the lead. She turned when she felt a pair of eyes on her as she made her way up the corridor and saw his familiar white blond head. When she looked back, he averted his eyes and ducked into the restroom.

 

Hermione turned to make her way back and wait for him to exit, her hurt now bordering on anger. She wanted to confront him, ask him what his bloody problem was. But Professor Babbling stepped out of the classroom and called after her at that precise moment. “Miss Granger! I wondered if I could see you a moment?”

 

Hermione groaned and returned to the older witch. “Yes, Professor?” she asked, trying not to sound too put out.

 

“Forgive me, Hermione, but I noticed your last essay was nearly a foot shorter than usual,” she began.

 

“The length requirement was two feet. Mine was two and a half,” Hermione retorted, furrowing her brow.

 

The Professor nodded slowly. “Yes…but it’s not the quality of work I’m used to seeing from you. Is there anything on your mind? Do you need to see Madam Pomfrey for some nerve-soothing potion? The War…it affected everyone differently.”

 

“I am fine, Professor. I just didn’t have much more to say this time around. My next essay will be back to normal, I promise,” Hermione said, stepping around the witch to enter the classroom.

 

She was fuming silently, irritation with the teacher and irritation with Draco equalizing in her mind. He entered the classroom just as the bell was chiming to signal the beginning of class. He avoided Hermione’s stare and took a seat in the farthest possible chair away from her.

 

o-o-o

 

That night, she had finally had enough of the sleepless nights. She hadn’t slept since the blanket fort—and that had easily been the best sleep she’d gotten in two years. Hermione took a long, scalding hot shower and put on her coziest, rattiest pajamas—an old Holyhead Harpies tank top and matching shorts that she’d gotten from Ginny many summers ago.

 

She settled into bed and extinguished all light from the room, staring out the window at the moon beyond. It was full and luminous and entirely too bright for her current dark mood. Hermione closed her eyes, willing herself to think of nothing but the soft, bouncy feel of her mattress, the fluffy down comforter around her. Just as her mind began to wander and drift into a sleepy haze, just as her eyelids fluttered shut—she heard it. The door to her sitting room clicked open and someone entered from the corridor beyond.

 

Hermione, War-wary and paranoid, grabbed her wand and threw her blankets off. She padded softly toward her cracked bedroom door when she heard a strange, strangled noise. As she swung her bedroom door open, wand drawn, she came face to face with a sight she knew she would never forget to her dying day.

 

Draco Malfoy was standing in her bedroom doorway, blood streaming down his swollen and bruised face. He was hunched over slightly and, even in the pale moonlight filtering through her window, she could see breaks in the crimson wash of his face. Long pink and pale rivulets where tears were streaming.

 

His eyes were trained on the floor and he choked back a sob, his shoulders shaking. “Granger…” his voice croaked.

 

“What happened to you?” she asked, rushing to close the gap between them.

 

He shook his head. “I can’t keep doing this. I don’t know why I ever wanted to come back here.”

 

Hermione pulled him into her room and gently pushed him onto the edge of the bed. “What happened?”

 

He shrugged, keeping his eyes looking anywhere but at her. “I’m reaping what I’ve sown.”

 

Hermione tapped her wand to a lamp next to her bed and the room was bathed in a warm glow. She turned to survey the damage and gasped. His nose was clearly broken and still bleeding everywhere. His eyebrow was swollen, causing his eye to slightly shut. His bottom and top lip were both busted and blood leaked into his mouth. He had scratches and red bruising down his arms and he was leaning as though he had a broken rib or two.

 

“Who did this to you?” she demanded gently, running her wand over the cuts on his face.

 

She muttered some healing spells and the swelling in his lip and eye went down. Next, she moved to fix his broken nose and he winced when they heard it crack back into place. Draco remained silent. She went to retrieve a wet cloth from the bathroom and came back to find him leaning forward, elbows on his knees. His shoulders were shaking and he was clearly weeping, the sound enough to make her heart wrench.

 

All of her anger that she’d felt toward him that afternoon, the rejection, it all melted away as he sobbed on her bed, his body bent and drawn inward pitifully. Hermione went to stand in front of him. “Come on, lift your face so I can clean it,” she urged, lifting his face with her fingers.

She caught the briefest glimpse of his watery silver eyes, looking like ash trapped within glass, before he closed them, unable to face her. She tenderly wiped the rust colored blood from his face, careful around the open cuts on his brow and lips.

 

He was still crying so hard, she feared he would begin to hyperventilate soon. His hands were shaking uncontrollably, from residual adrenaline or anger, she didn’t know. She shushed him gently. “Calm down. Don’t cry.”

 

Her words made him cry even harder and he put his face into his elbow, leaning down toward the floor once more. She put her hand on his shoulder and leaned down. “Come on, hush that now. Tell me what’s happened, Draco.”

 

“What does it look like?” he asked, finally looking up at her. “I got my arse handed to me.”

 

“Who did it?” she repeated.

 

He shook his head. “I don’t want you going after anyone. This is my issue.”

 

“Who?” she urged once more.

 

He fell silent and looked at a spot beyond her elbow, staring but not seeing. He shook his head slowly. The look on his face told Hermione everything that she needed to know: they were Slytherins. Draco winced as he readjusted his position and Hermione tugged at the sleeve of his jumper. “Take this off and I’ll repair what I can.”

 

He reached for his shirt just at the base of his head and pulled it forward over his head and off his arms. Sitting in nothing but his black slacks, his chest bared and naked, she was able to see his War wounds. He had deep gashes running across his pectorals and a long, diagonal raised scar—purple and violent. He ran a palm over it, averting his eyes. “Potter’s Sectumsempra…pretty impressive piece of Dark magic.”

 

“And the others?” she managed to whisper.

 

“The Dark Lord…the other Death Eaters…” he shrugged once more.

 

Hermione recalled the one scene she hoped she never would again: his initiation into Voldemort’s inner circle. The Death Eaters had moved in, one at a time, and hexed and cursed him with spells she’d never even heard of. He’d been broken and dazed at the time, bleeding and hurting. She wondered how many times that scene had replayed itself, as he failed repeatedly to follow orders.

 

She leaned forward and ran her wand over his ribcage, whispering, _“Ferula!”_ and _“Episkey!”_ as often as she could, praying that it was mending the fractures and splinters under the surface of his skin. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, so low he had barely spoken.

 

“For what?” she asked, taking note that he was looking down at her burgundy painted toes and not up at her any longer.

 

“For not coming round.”

 

Her heart seized up and she finished her wandwork. “I just…I don’t understand _why_. I thought…I mean… _I_ had a lovely time with _you_ on Saturday.”

 

“That’s the problem, Granger. Can’t you see that?” she heard him mumble into his lap.

 

Her mind was reeling, thoughts flying around quicker than she could comprehend a single one. “I don’t think I understand.”

 

“Look at me, Her-mione,” he looked up at her, his voice cracking as emotion caught in his throat.

 

She looked down at him, his face no longer swollen or bloody, but still bruised significantly. Hermione used her fingertips to push his hair behind his ear and then ran them gingerly down his jaw. “I’m looking.”

 

“How could you possibly want to deal with me? I was horrible to you our entire lives. And now? I can’t even walk the corridors without getting attacked by multiple people,” he told her.

 

“That’s not your fault,” she tried to argue.

 

“You deserve better,” he countered.

 

Hermione leaned forward and wrapped her arms tightly around his shoulders and his hands landed lightly on her hips. “I told you I want to be your friend. I…we…both know where this is headed, Draco.”

 

“And what kind of life will that be? Getting turned away from restaurants in Diagon Alley, spit on in the streets, attacked when I’m outnumbered five to one?” his tone was almost pleading when he pulled away.

 

He was trying to beg her to see what he believed to be reason. _“Five?”_ she rasped incredulously. “We need to go to the Headmistress, Draco.”

 

He shook his head. “No. Absolutely not. I just…I shouldn’t have even come here.”

 

He made to stand up and she pushed him back into a sitting position. “Why _did_ you come? If you think I could do so much better, why did you come here?” she asked him.

 

“Because. I’m selfish. I wanted to see you. You, your magic…it _soothes_ me. Your presence makes me instantly calmer. I’m too selfish to even stay away properly,” he replied, wiping his eyes with the heels of his hands.

 

“For what it’s worth, I don’t _want_ you to stay away,” she told him.

 

“Granger…I will bring you nothing but sorrow. I’m not even worthy of your friendship, let alone everything your visions have shown you.”

 

The despairing tone of his voice was enough to make Hermione shed her first tear. “Stop. Just stop it,” she demanded quietly and she embraced him once more.

 

He buried his face into her and she felt the warm, wet tears slide over the bare skin of her shoulder. Hermione ran a soothing hand over his shoulder blades and felt more scars beneath her palms. Absurdly, she wondered if all Death Eaters had a topography map of raised and indented scars marring their bodies.

 

“I will not give up on you. I will not abandon you like everyone else has,” she told him quietly, pulling back once more.

 

“What have I done to deserve your friendship?” he asked her as she moved away to retrieve another blanket from her sitting room. “Absolutely nothing.”

 

From the doorway, she turned to face him. “You changed. For the better.”

 

She retrieved a blanket from the couch and brought it into the room. “Here. Stay here tonight…”

 

He looked at the blanket and then at her, contemplating his choices. He finally nodded and took the soft throw from her and toed off his shoes. He laid on his side and draped the blanket over himself, laying atop her comforter. She tapped the lamp with her wand to extinguish it and then she slid under her comforter. He had his back to her and she could practically _feel_ the shame rolling off from him.

 

Hermione lay on her same side, facing his back and counted the long gashes in his flesh in the pale light of the moon filtering through her window. She had heard Harry tell the story of how he’d encountered Draco, at his wits’ end in Moaning Myrtle’s restroom, crying inconsolably. She’d had a hard time back then picturing the strong, aristocratic man as anything but stony and cold. But the boy she had just witnessed breaking down, the boy who was still trying to mask subtle whimpers so she wouldn’t know he was _still_ crying, he was a world away from the boy Harry had nearly killed that day.

 

Hermione raised her hand hesitantly and then rested it on his hip, letting him know that she was there, that she cared. He reached back and laced his fingers with hers, turning his head to bury his face in her pillow.

 

As she listened to his breathing deepen, Hermione grew more and more angry with each passing second. Five individuals had literally attacked him, unprovoked, she was sure. The rage that boiled within her was nearly enough to undo her. Her hair was frizzing with the surge of bitter magic and she could nearly taste it in her mouth, like the metallic taste of a coin.

 

And she knew _exactly_ who she needed to confront about this. The one person who claimed to care for him above all others: Theodore Nott.

 

o-o-o

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

*****Trigger warning: Mentioning of Suicide**

 

Chapter 13:

 

Hermione awoke the next morning to a sharp crash of thunder. She instantly became aware of the warmth of a body next to her and she opened her eyes. Draco was lying alongside her, one arm slung over his eyes and the other stretched between them, as though searching out her hand in his sleep. She could see violet and maroon bruises marring his milky white skin—the skin she’d fantasized about for so long.

 

His chest was rising and falling steadily and she knew he was still fast asleep. She felt a stabbing ache in her heart at the sight of him, her emotions over his plight so raw in the light of morning. She felt too voyeuristic staring at him when he was in this state. This was different from all those times in the library—this time he was shattered and vulnerable. Hermione lifted the throw blanket she’d given him up and over his chest to give him some modesty and then quietly climbed out of bed.

 

She realized then that she was dressed skimpily and retrieved her oversized sweater and a pair of lounge pants, pulling the garments over her shorts and top. She walked to her kitchenette countertop and placed a heating charm on a kettle of water. Hermione leaned her palms on the counter and took a few deep breaths.

 

Anger was still coursing through her as she thought of what Draco was going through. Hadn’t she lived in the woods for almost a year, hunting Voldemort’s cursed trinkets for _months_ , fought valiantly in the Great Hall alongside the Order of the Phoenix and Dumbledore’s Army, and testified on his behalf—all so there would no longer be a divide?

 

She could understand the mentality of the other Houses—they had all lost loved ones and needed an outlet. But now, these moronic Slytherins were turning against him. And for what? Because they thought he was a traitor to _their_ cause? How convenient for them all to believe—Voldemort hadn’t taken up residence in any of _their_ homes, threatened any of _their_ lives, tortured any of _them_. None of them sported deep gashes and permanent scars to display their hardships to the world.

 

It broke her heart that Draco truly believed he deserved everything that was happening to him. He was no longer the arrogant, pompous little prat he’d been in second year. His life over the last few years had sobered him significantly. He believed that everything that the Slytherins were doing to him, all of the insults the other Houses threw at him daily, all of it was retribution. And there wasn’t a single concept that was sadder to her in that moment.

 

Hermione also knew that Draco would not fight back. _“Come on, Granger. It’s not worth it…I am on probation, I cannot go to Azkaban…”_ he’d told her. Parkinson’s shrill voice rang through her head as she sang, _“Let’s go Malfoy! Straight to Azkaban!”_ He was trying so hard to keep his nose clean, to keep his head down and to keep out of trouble. She knew he was right: if he did fight back and cause someone harm, the instigator would twist the story to paint him as the problem. He would be risking a trip to the wizarding prison.

 

But _she_ was the Golden Girl, the War-heroine, the _Princess_. She was in no danger of going to Azkaban any time soon. And Theodore Nott, a poor excuse for a best friend, wasn’t either. His father was locked away in the prison, but Nott, Jr. had never been implicated in a single Dark event. She gripped the edge of the counter angrily as she thought of the burly, dark-haired wizard. She had a few choice words for him when she saw him next.

 

“You think I could take you up on that cup of tea?” came a sleep-rasped voice from behind her, causing her to jump slightly.

 

She turned around and he was leaning against the back of the couch, his arms crossed over his bare chest. “Sure,” she told him, retrieving a small jar of honey from the cupboard above her head and a small jar of milk from her cooling chest.

 

He remained silent as he watched her prepare his tea—a splash of milk and two teaspoons of honey. She stirred it and brought it to him. He reached out and took it gratefully, licking the now scabbed cut across his top lip. “Tell me, Granger. How is it you know exactly how I take my tea?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at her.

_Shit._ How was she going to answer that? She couldn’t very well tell him that she watched him, nearly obsessively, from across the Great Hall. He smirked at her and lowered his gaze to the floor. “It’s okay. I know you drink coffee in the morning—black on days we have exams, with a little cream and sugar on days we don’t.”

 

Hermione could feel herself gaping at him and snapped her jaw closed. He had been watching her as well? When? Wouldn’t she have seen him through all of her own staring? He was actively avoiding her stare now and she turned around to prepare herself a cup of tea. “Yes…well…this morning, I’ll follow suit and have some tea,” she replied, trying to keep her nerves in check.

 

She put a single spoon of honey into the warm brown liquid and stirred with a cinnamon stick—the same way she drank it each night before bed. When she turned back to him, she sighed. “You’ll need to use some glamour charms to cover those bruises.”

 

He nodded solemnly and finished off his drink. “I’d better be going. I’ve got Alchemy to get to.”

 

He washed his cup and then retrieved his jumper from her room, his blood shining on the black fabric. Draco made his way to her door and stopped with his hand on the knob. He looked over his shoulder and seemed as though he would say something but stopped. “See you later,” he muttered and he was gone.

 

o-o-o

 

Draco always loved thunderstorms. Since he was young. Not quite in the whimsical, skipping-through-mud-puddles way Granger had described. But in an earthlier sense. There was something hypnotic about the powerful heavens opening up and unleashing a torrent upon the earth, quenching the soil’s parched thirst. The sound of the raindrops pitter-pattering against stone, grass and windowpanes. The woodsy, petrichor scent of wet peat moss and soil. He would lie in bed as a child, all of the lights in his room extinguished and watch the shadows dance and play across his walls as lightning flashed.

 

He had no desire to be in his room this afternoon—it was becoming increasingly stuffier the less time he was able to wander the castle and the more he had to spend in his dorm. Alchemy had gone off without a hitch—he was the only Slytherin. But when Charms with the Ravenclaws had rolled around, he decided he would rather avoid it altogether.

 

He felt cowardly—he’d never backed away from a duel in his life and suddenly he was unable to participate. His former friends were trying to rile him up, get him to slip up so he could be carted away to Azkaban with his father. The fact that the Dark Lord had fallen and half of the Slytherins’ fathers were incarcerated meant nothing to them. All they cared about was the fact that he had, at one time, been their ruthless leader, learning and dabbling in the Dark Arts to further the Pure-blood agenda. Then, at the end, he suddenly wasn’t. The Muggle-born Slytherins were too afraid to speak out. None of the lot, save Theo knew what he’d been through. The Greengrass sisters accepted Theo’s word when he’d told them that Draco had never really been Dark, only played a part. But the rest wanted retribution. And they were going to take it any way they could.

 

Draco sat in the open air of the Astronomy Tower, his feet dangling down from his perch on the wall. He’d charmed himself to stay dry, though he wanted nothing more than to feel the rain on his skin, washing away his impurities, his sins, his past life. He looked toward the skies—swirling, tumultuous clouds dark as night battled for dominance, each one more ominous than the last. There wasn’t a break in sight as he searched for a single ray of Light to be shed upon him, to brighten the ever-present darkness around him ever so slightly.

 

The feelings he’d felt for years came back to him. Sometimes, the urge built up gradually, little by little with each passing snide comment or ill wish. And other times, he would wake up with an urge so strong he had to grip his bathroom sink to keep himself upright. The Darkness seeped in, little by little, like the noxious gas he’d once read of Muggles using in warfare. It choked the life out of him and brought him to his knees more often than not.

 

And how simple it would be, now with the Dark Lord gone and his mother’s life in no danger? He could easily, with a strong push from the seated position he was in, end all of his pain and misery. Those around him would rejoice, the Slytherins would probably throw a celebration. His mother would be rid of the scandal of having an ex-Death Eater for a son—she’d never wanted that life for her only son and he hadn’t listened when she’d told him so.

 

And the Darkness. The Darkness would finally overtake him, wholly and completely. In a matter of seconds, he would slip into the sweet, black abyss. No more sorrows. No more worries. No more insults. No more beatings. He pulled back his sleeve to survey the bane of his existence. The Mark was rapidly fading with the Dark Lord’s true demise; now a shade of pink. It looked significantly less ominous without the onyx ink running through it.

 

Draco’s mind wandered to Granger in that moment. Her bright, vibrant mane of golden-brown locks, her large innocent eyes of mahogany, her melodic laugh when she was being carefree and silly. He smiled at the thought, remembering how she’d spun and giggled with unabashed glee when they’d danced. He cared for her deeply, his fondness for her coming to him more quickly than he ever could have imagined.

 

But Granger was _good._ She had an old soul that was pure as the driven snow. Purer than the blood coursing through his veins—the one idiotic thing that had separated them for so long. She was kind, fierce, feisty and optimistic. _She was_ _the Light in his never-ending, loathsome Darkness._

 

That thought scared him almost as much as it intrigued him. Granger deserved so much better than the life she would have if they continued their friendship or delved into something deeper. The reporters would tear her apart, Golden limb from Golden limb. She would never be able to sit down for a nice meal in public with him, she would never be accepted as long as he was in tow. Her own friends had their hesitations. He would withdraw into himself and she would never be able to break through his walls once his defenses were up. It would be a lifetime of shame, anger and hurt, a circular, vicious cycle, with each cycle worse than the last.

 

But, blast it all, he was selfish—he’d already admitted that. All he wanted was to be in her presence, her gentle magic soothing his frayed nerves, her tinkling laugh reverberating in his head. Perhaps he should take what he could get, keep her for as long as she’d have him.

 

Fuck. He was going to stop fighting it. He knew it then, as the thought of her endearing little, heart-shaped face and pretty smile invaded his thoughts. As long as he was still too cowardly to end things on his terms, he was going to stop pushing her away. Friendship or relationship, he didn’t care. He was going to let her in until she saw reason and regained her sanity. Only then, would he be able to jump.

 

o-o-o

 

“Can I see you for a moment, Nott?” Hermione more or less demanded at lunchtime.

 

The brawny wizard tore his gaze away from Daphne Greengrass and raised an impatient eyebrow at the brunette witch. “Can I help you with something?”

 

“In the corridor, now,” she told him, gesturing to the doors.

 

Theo rose and excused himself from the table, his lunch untouched as he followed Hermione out into the hallway. She led him around a corner and then turned on him. Seeing Theo, so happy-go-lucky and laughing with his bimbo girlfriend made her want to scream. His friend was suffering immensely, while this prick still had the ability to carry on with his life. “Aren’t you supposed to be his _friend_?”

 

Theo crossed his arms and glared down at her over his nose. “And what the fuck is _that_ supposed to mean, Granger?”

 

“Well, he always says you’re his _brother_. Yet, the moment he needs someone, you start chasing after a witch and ignoring him completely. What kind of friend does that?” she demanded.

 

“Don’t you talk to me about friendship. You have no idea what you even speak of! Tell me, _Hermione_ , when was the last time you heard from Weasley? Was it when he made a huge scene and embarrassed both you and Draco in the Three Broomsticks?” he asked her icily.

 

“We are not talking about my friends!” she nearly screamed, shoving him harshly in his chest.

 

He barely flinched at her assault. “Aren’t we though? Do you realize that I have been trying to get through to Draco since the second of May? He has erected a barrier around himself and he does not want my help. He wants no one around him _but you_. I have told him I would kill anyone he told me to—I have no qualms about going to Azkaban for him. But he has called me off, won’t let me seek vengeance.”

 

“And you just _listen to him?_ ”

 

“If you haven’t ever been properly introduced to him, Draco Malfoy is a force to be reckoned with. If he says do not go after our Housemates, I will not go after our Housemates. Not to mention, it’s called _respect_ , Granger.”

 

Hermione huffed. “Well, you need to start thinking about ignoring his requests. Because, so help me God, if you do not handle your House, I will turn every one of you into the slippery little snakes that you are, tie you all together and toss you into the Black Lake for the Giant Squid to feast on!” she seethed.

 

“What are you going on about?” he asked her, narrowing his eyes once more.

 

“Do you have any idea where Draco was last night?” her voice was cutting but Theo refused to flinch or back down.

 

“I would assume in his dorm—he hardly ever leaves there,” the Slytherin said with a shrug.

 

“Wrong. Five people from your House cornered him and beat the piss out of him! He came to my room, weeping!” she told him, giving him another frustrated shove.

 

Theo furrowed his brow and looked at her for any sign of deception. “Who?”

 

“He wouldn’t tell me. He didn’t even let on that they were Slytherins—his face gave that away.”

 

“Well…I’ll pick them off, one by one. You rest that pretty little head of yours, Granger,” Theo told her, his tone dripping with condescension.

 

“And what am I supposed to do? Sit idly by?” she asked, crossing her arms now.

 

“Be the friend he deserves,” Theo told her. “He needs someone strong who will fight for him. Mentally. I’ll handle the physical part—it’s time to trim the fat from Slytherin House.”

 

“You’d better handle this, Nott. Or I’ll handle you _first_ ,” she told him, jabbing a finger in his chest.

 

“Where is he now?” Theo asked. “He wasn’t in Charms class.”

 

“What do you mean, _wasn’t in Charms class?_ ” she demanded, reaching into her schoolbag to retrieve the Marauder’s Map.

 

She looked over the Map, her eyes wandering every inch quickly. She finally spotted his dot and the scroll depicting his name at the top of the Astronomy Tower. _I was in a very Dark place, and I wanted nothing more than to end my own life. I stood at the top of the Astronomy Tower once…and got right to the edge…everyone wishes for Death to come to me, including myself._

“He’s in the Astronomy Tower!” she choked.

 

Theo furrowed his brow. “Why would he be there? I thought they closed it off after Dumbledore died?”

 

Hermione took off in the direction of the Tower, ignoring Theo’s calls after her. He didn’t know. That was one of Draco’s secrets that no one else in the world knew but her. There was only tunnel vision as she made her way through sparsely populated corridors and up the long, winding staircase up to the Tower. She threw open the hatch door and climbed onto the platform where she’d once watched the stars with Harry and Ron, but where Draco had once watched a man brutally murdered because of his hesitance.

 

He was sitting in the wide-open window overlooking the Quidditch Pitch. When he heard the door close softly behind her, he glanced over his shoulder. “How did you find me?”

 

“Why are you hiding?” she countered.

 

He turned back to face the grounds. “I asked you first.”

 

The scene was making Hermione extremely uncomfortable. Her heart was racing at his positioning. He was right on the edge of the Tower, and her fear of heights coupled with his confession ringing through her mind was setting her off. She moved closer to him and he sighed before he turned around. He remained seated in the window, his back to the grounds. She stepped in between his knees. He wasn’t crying, and for that she was grateful. She ran her fingertips tenderly over his face, the light stubble that grew with his inability to shave over painful bruises. He closed his eyes and leaned his face into her touch and put his hand over hers. After a brief moment, he pulled her hand away and gave her a weak smile. “Come on, Granger. We’ve got a free period now and some Arithmancy charts that need completing.”

 

Draco hopped off of the stone wall, a strangely serene look on his face. He held her hand firmly and bent to retrieve his schoolbag before leading her to the spiral stairs down to the castle. They were silent as he led her down the stairs, their clasped hands behind his back as he descended. He led her down four flights of stairs, past various students. All the while, never dropping her hand. Hermione could hear the whispers, see the students eyeing them.

 

Draco kept his face looking straight, his eyes cold and almost _daring_ someone to say something aloud. For her part, Hermione knew her face was burning scarlet. Not with shame or embarrassment. No. She was on fire because the icy man was declaring them a pair, a companionship between them. Though the others would talk and whisper of the sordid love affair between the Golden Girl and the Death Eater, she knew it was more. Draco was choosing to trust her, to stick with her and allow her to do the same. He was letting her know that he accepted her friendship and was going to try his best at reciprocating. They were not a couple yet, but he didn’t care if others thought they were. He was trying his best and she couldn’t ask for anything more.

 

The thought was enough to make Hermione’s heart sing and her magic crackle between their palms. He smirked down at her when he felt the little spark and then retrained his eyes straight ahead.

 

o-o-o

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14:

 

Hermione awoke that night, her pillow soaked through with tears. She’d been having a dream—she didn’t know whether it qualified as a nightmare. Her father was running ahead of her and she was chasing after him. No matter how loudly she called after him, he never turned around, never flinched.

 

A quick check of her Muggle clock told her it was just after two in the morning. She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, wiping furiously at her wet cheeks. Usually, her nights were filled with screams and flashes of light and the smell of blood and decay in her nose as she navigated through the Final Battle. But lately, dreams of her parents had begun to seep in, just to really drive the final proverbial nail into the coffin.

 

Taking a few steadying breaths, she rose and gave Crookshanks a quick scratch behind the ears. She paced a few times and tried to calm her frayed nerves, holding her hands against her thighs to keep them from shaking. Her father’s face flashed through her mind, then the back of his head as he rushed away from her.

 

Trying to keep from crying once more, Hermione switched her thoughts from her father to Draco. They’d spent the better part of the evening together, working in the library. She knew something had been bothering him, but he had attempted to put on a content face for her, even trying his hand at flirting a few times. The image of him sitting atop the Astronomy Tower wall tried to fight its way into her memory and she swallowed those thoughts down.

 

He'd given her the password to his room and she yearned to use it, if only to see him for a brief moment. She paced a few more times around her room. He’d used hers and entered her room when he needed a friend. After a few more swipes of her bedroom, she retrieved her hooded jumper and pulled it on hastily.

 

Hermione checked the Map to make sure there wasn’t a soul in sight between their two rooms and then padded quietly to his room. His door, that rich mahogany, looked almost black in the artificial moonlight filtering in over the slumbering armor. She ran her hands over the intricately carved DM on the door and took a deep breath. Every nerve synapsis in her body was screaming. Should she knock? What if he was sleeping—that might wake him.

 

 _“Callidus,”_ she whispered and she heard the soft click of his door.

 

She slipped into the sitting room and it was dimly lit by the real moonlight beyond the window. His bedroom door was cracked and there was a pale light filtering from within. She stalked quietly toward his door, and hesitated for a brief moment before she tapped it almost silently with her knuckle.

 

She didn’t wait for a response and she pushed the door open slightly. Draco was lying in his bed, one arm behind his head and the other holding up a book. She’d never been all the way into his room, but the first thing she noticed was the black bedding draped around him, his pale form swallowed up within. He looked over at her when the door opened and raised an eyebrow before putting the book on his nightstand. “Granger…is everything all right?” he asked, concern coloring his tone.

 

He scooted up the bed so he was sitting back against the headboard, the black blanket hiding his lower half. She shrugged and drew her lip into her teeth, fighting the urge to cry. “You know how you told me acknowledge that I’m hurting, too?”

 

Draco’s eyes flickered in a quick narrowing before he furrowed his brow and nodded. She took a shallow breath. “Well…I think this is it.”

 

She felt a hot tear splash onto her cheek and she wiped it away, nearly ashamed that he was witnessing her weakness. She had tried so hard to be the strong witch he needed to hold him upright. But after one too many dreams of her forever-lost parents, she didn’t know how much more bottling up she could take.

 

Draco climbed out of his bed, clad only in a pair of Slytherin green boxers. She turned her gaze from the sight of him in only his underwear and he retrieved a pair of pajama bottoms to slip on before walking to her. He hesitantly placed his hands on either side of her jaw, as a lover would do, but instead of kissing her lips, he planted a sweet, lingering kiss to her hairline. “Come on, Granger,” he told her, putting an arm around her shoulders and leading her to the bed.

 

He pulled back his blanket and helped her in. “Wait here, I’ll make us some tea.”

 

He left, and she watched his back retreat and the light along his kitchenette counters come on. Hermione looked around herself. She was nestled into some of the softest cotton imaginable, darker than the blackest coal. She ran her fingers along it, noting that her tanned skin didn’t have quite the same intriguing contrast as his. She looked around his room, so similar to hers but still so different. He had tons of books, written in a plethora of different languages. He had a few little dragon trinkets on one shelf and she noted that they looked like children’s toys.

 

“My children give me gifts sometimes,” Draco remarked, following her gaze.

 

He handed her a teacup and she noticed there was a cinnamon stick half submerged into it. He went around to his own side and climbed in, saddling up close to her so that their hips brushed. “Tell me what happened,” his voice was gentle as he spoke.

 

“I thought I was coming to terms with losing my parents. I vehemently deny myself the right to think about them. Thinking of them brings so many memories and even the good ones are tainted and bad now,” she told him.

 

Draco was silent for a beat before he placed his cup on his nightstand and leaned his head on her shoulder. She put her cheek against his hair, the finest silk she’d ever felt. “You did the right thing, Granger.”

 

“How do you reckon that? I could have picked a more obscure country and sent them away without affecting their memories,” she told him, running her finger over the rim of her cup.

 

He was silent for a moment. “Perhaps…but that was priority number one for the Dark Lord when you three disappeared. He sent Yaxley and Crabbe, Sr. to search them out.”

 

His voice was rueful and apologetic. She had figured that would be the case, but hearing him confirm it, hearing him admit to knowing about the goings on of the Death Eaters, it was too much. He heard her breath hitch and felt her chest begin to shudder. When she began to shake with her sobs he leaned up once more. He whispered a quick drying charm as he rubbed his fingers over her cheeks. “I didn’t tell you to hurt you. I just want you to understand that you did what you had to in order to keep them alive.”

 

She looked at him and then down at her rapidly cooling tea. “So did you for your parents,” she told him.

 

He seemed stunned by that and was silent for a long moment. Her breathing was still erratic and harsh as she tried to pull in breaths. Draco placed the palm of his hand directly in the center of her chest, his fingers grazing her neck and took in a deep breath of his own. “Calm.”

 

She mimicked his breathing and then he removed his hand and replaced his head on her shoulder. “I’m sorry you had to do that and I’m sorry that you weren’t able to bring them back to you. For the millionth time, I wish I had a time-turner so I could go back and right all of the wrongs I was a part of. You’d still have your mother and father.”

 

“This isn’t your fault, Draco. Not everything that happened in the War is your fault. It is Voldemort’s and Voldemort’s alone. The others were manipulated by fear or propaganda. You’re a sweet, caring man who fell into the grasp of entirely the wrong person. But you did what you had to, too.”

 

They fell silent and Hermione drank down the rest of her cold tea and placed the cup on the nightstand. Draco turned the light out and slid down into the blankets. Hermione did the same, but noticed that his hair continued to glow luminescent in the moonlight. He switched to lying on his side and leaned up on one bent elbow, his head in his hand. She was playing with the blanket between her fingers, actively ignoring his gaze. He moved to push curls away from her forehead and ran a single fingertip from her hairline down her jaw. “It’s okay to show emotion, Granger. It doesn’t make you weak. In fact, you’re so much stronger than me and you’ve dealt with so much more loss. I admire you for that.”

 

“Thank you,” was all she could think to say.

 

He chuckled and laid back against his pillows, pulling the blankets up to his neck as the fire died down in his fireplace. He tapped her leg with his fingers and she put her hand under the covers to lace her fingers through his. All around her, Draco’s scent bombarded her senses and she allowed the familiar smell to comfort her as she stared at the bedpost by her feet. Intricately carved serpents wound around the post and she found herself sleepily trying to determine where one ended and another began.

 

o-o-o

 

When Hermione awoke the next morning, she found Draco seated in a chair by the bed, his feet up and tucked under the covers. He was freshly showered and well-groomed, reading the same book that he had been the night before, _Divining the Future: Sights Un-Seen._ He looked up when she began to stretch and smirked. “You stretch in exactly the same manner as your kneazle,” he teased, turning the page in his book.

 

“Doing a bit of light reading?” she asked.

 

“I figured, I never believed in Divination before. But since you seem so apt with foretelling our future, I’d try to catch up on all the years I skipped that class,” he replied, raising an eyebrow when she sat up. “That’s a good look for you—first impressions are everything and my mother will be pleased to know she’s meeting Medusa.”

 

Hermione became acutely aware that her hair had taken on a mind of its own and was currently three times its normal volume. She retrieved his pillow and tossed it at him, causing him to let out a deep belly laugh when he caught it. “Bugger off.”

 

“I do believe you are in _my_ bed, witch,” he told her, the tips of his ears turning red.

 

Hermione looked around once more and her heart began to race as the prior night’s memories flooded her. “I’m sorry. I just…”

 

He shrugged. “I told you I’d reciprocate everything you do for me if given the opportunity. Isn’t that how friendship works?”

 

“I suppose it is,” she told him, finally motivating herself enough to climb out of his cozy bed to make her way back to her own dorm. “What time are we leaving?”

 

“McGonagall is giving us three hours starting at noon,” he replied.

 

Hermione nodded and made her way to her own room. After feeding Crooks, she ran herself a hot bath. She wanted to sink into it and wash away all of the negativity from the day before. She lay in the tub, soaking and thinking of the day ahead of her. She was anxious to meet Draco’s mother—really meet her. The last time she’d seen her had been when Harry had testified on her behalf. Narcissa Malfoy was an incredibly intimidating woman, but Hermione wondered to what extent exactly.

 

Hermione and Draco were not courting yet, so what would she think of Hermione’s veracity in protecting her son? Would she have a problem with her strange possessiveness and care, seemingly developed in such a short span of time? And what about Hermione’s blood? Draco may not care about blood status, but surely Narcissa Malfoy, wife of Lucius Malfoy, would certainly care.

 

And then, there was the little issue of going back to the Manor. The last time she’d been in that home, she was being tortured by Draco’s aunt, Narcissa’s sister. Narcissa had made no motion to stop any of it and had, in fact, been the one to summon Draco to identify them. Would Hermione be able to face setting foot inside that home once more? To come face to face with the elder witch again?

 

Hermione sighed, pulling her macadamia oil conditioning treatment through her thick mane. Why did she ever agree to this? And why would Draco even ask? He seemed to be so keen on her healing, did he not realize that this might set her back? Even still, Hermione refused to say these concerns aloud to him, to cut him even deeper with her rejection of his mother.

 

She dressed slowly, wearing some of her more conservative clothing—a black sheath dress with a white belt and a low pair of kitten heels over her signature black tights. She plaited her hair, nearly growling when a few stray curls popped out and framed her face. Where was Ginny Weasley when Hermione needed her? On the Quidditch Pitch.

 

Hermione made her way back to Draco’s room and knocked softly. He answered and raised an eyebrow. “What, no ‘Sexy Pistons’ t-shirt and green plaid skirt?”

 

“It’s Sex Pistols,” she rolled her eyes, “and I thought I’d look presentable for the first time meeting your mother.”

 

He smirked. “I appreciate that, but you can be yourself.”

 

“Yeah, right. And be looked down upon by Lady Malfoy?” she snorted, crossing her arms.

 

Draco’s smirk fell and he gave her a stony look. She knew she’d crossed a line. “My mother is not at all who you think she is, Granger. I think you’ll be quite taken with her once you give her an unbiased chance.”

 

Hermione instantly regretted her comment and mumbled an apology, looking at the floor between them. “Well, we’d better head out,” he told her, closing his door behind him, his tone still irritated.

 

“I’m sorry, Draco. It’s just…the last time I really had any interaction with her, I was on your floor,” she told him.

 

She felt his hand brush against hers, asking to be held. She laced her fingers through his. “My mother is not like Bellatrix or Father. She is more…like me, I suppose. If she makes you uncomfortable in any way, we will leave at once. I wouldn’t ask you to do something if it made you uncomfortable.”

 

Hermione doubted his sentiment severely. Draco seemed to be one Malfoy that was beamed in from outer space, not fitting the Malfoy mold nearly as perfectly as she’d once thought. He led her to the carriage, which promptly brought them to Hogsmeade, where they could Apparate away. The carriage ride was silent as they bumped and jostled along. She snuck a glance in his direction and Draco seemed to have a nervous excitement about him. He looked equal parts terrified and thrilled to have her meet the most important witch in his life. It was endearing, really and she tried to choke down her own terror and be supportive of him.

 

He helped her off the carriage in Hogsmeade and then ducked into the nearest alley. “I still hate being this exposed,” he explained.

 

She put a hand on his jaw and smiled, hoping her fear wasn’t showing. “Let’s go then.”

 

“Take my hand—we’ll side-along,” he instructed.

 

Hermione clasped her hand firmly into his and felt the horrible squelching in her belly as they were sucked to the next destination. When they landed, the first thing Hermione noticed was that they were nowhere near Malfoy Manor. They were standing in front of a French villa, made of stone. It was a two-story home, large but not immodest. There was a large gate at the end of the cobblestone drive, its path blocked with two stately ancient wooden doors. There was seemingly an enclosed corridor over the gate that led to a circular tower. There was lush greenery all around the property, blocking any view of what lay beyond.

 

“Where are we?” she asked, confused.

 

“Burgundy, France,” he replied, looking down at her with a wide smile.

 

 _“France?”_ she nearly squealed.

 

“You didn’t think my mother was going to stay in the Manor did you? After all the Dark Lord did there?” he asked, looking up fondly at the structure before them.

 

“I…I guess I just assumed,” she stuttered.

 

“You aren’t the only one who gets nightmares thinking of my childhood home, Granger,” he leaned down and whispered into her ear, giving her a quick peck to the side of the head. “This is my parents’ vineyard. We’ve got a team of wonderful house elves who make some of the finest wine in the magical world,” he told her. “And it’s all done legitimately, so the Ministry couldn’t seize any part of it.”

 

Hermione furrowed her brow to protest when a tiny elf opened the door, wearing a small hand-sewn leopard print dress and a pair of red heels that were two sizes too big. “Master Malfoy! And Mistress!” she squeaked, beckoning them toward the door.

 

“Hermione,” she told the elf, extending her hand to shake.

 

“Mistress Herminnie! Leta,” the tiny elf said, bowing deeply. “Right this way. Missus Malfoy is awaiting you.”

 

Draco smirked at her, looking smug. “Right this way, _Herminnie._ ”

 

Hermione shot him a look that clearly promised murder and he let out a laugh. He placed his hand on the small of her back and led her into the home. It was nothing like Malfoy Manor. The villa was warm and inviting, decorated in shades of sunshine—bright yellows and golds, deep scarlets and oranges. Every piece in the room tied with the next and, though there were gold accents splashed throughout, nothing looked gaudy or overdone. It was tasteful and elegant.

 

“Impressed?” Draco asked quietly, his tone amused.

 

“Do not boast, Dragon. It’s impolite,” his mother remarked, striding into the room.

 

Draco dropped his hand from Hermione’s back and gave his mother a winning smile. “Mother. You look well!” he told her, grabbing her up into an embrace.

 

Hermione looked at the unfamiliar sight. Draco stood half a foot taller than his mother, even as she stood in heels. His hair was paler than hers, but their skin was the same milky shade. The last time Hermione had seen her, a sickly pallor had graced the witch’s elegant features. Her face was now fuller, color tinged her cheeks. “Oh my Dragon. I worry about you so!” she told him, pulling back and touching his face in a tender, motherly way.

 

“Mother, I’d like for you to meet someone. Properly,” he said, taking his mother’s hand and walking her to where Hermione stood awkwardly.

 

Mrs. Malfoy came to stand in front of Hermione, taller than her by six inches. For the first time, Hermione noticed her eyes were a vibrant shade of cobalt, nearly crystal. Narcissa’s mouth twitched slightly and she dropped Draco’s hand and smoothed her robes—an ethereal shade of violet and made of a cascading material Hermione couldn’t identify. “Miss Granger.”

 

Hermione extended her hand and Mrs. Malfoy took it with both of hers. “Mrs. Malfoy.”

 

The blonde seemed exceedingly nervous, perhaps even more so than her, though she was better at hiding it. “Theodore tells me you’ve been campaigning rather…vehemently on behalf of my son?”

 

Draco snorted. “She attacks anyone who even looks at me wrong,” he corrected, rolling his eyes.

 

The older witch’s mouth twitched in the corners and Hermione knew she was fighting a smile. “Yes…it is rather unfortunate what happened to Miss Parkinson, isn’t it? I hear Violette had to bring her all the way to Cape Town to get those horns properly cut down.”

 

Hermione felt her own mouth twitch as she battled a smirk of her own. “Well. That will teach her a lesson she won’t soon forget.”

 

Mrs. Malfoy smiled fully then, a pleased smirk on her lips, her cheeks puffing the same way Draco’s did when he smirked. “I like the way you think, Miss Granger. You remind me quite a bit of myself when I was your age.”

 

Hermione didn’t know what to make of Mrs. Malfoy’s kindness. The older witch put a hand between her shoulder blades and gave her a gentle nudge toward a room at the far side of the entry. “Leta made us some tea, and she prepares the finest biscuits you’ve ever had—crispy but they melt in your mouth.”

 

Hermione shot Draco a look over her shoulder and he was standing there, hands in his pockets, smiling widely. He looked to be incredibly pleased with their interaction thus far. He slowly ambled after the pair of witches and Hermione turned to see Mrs. Malfoy leading her into another elegant room, decorated with all of the warmth of the French countryside. “After tea, I can bring you to the tower,” he commented as he pulled their chairs, first for his mother and then for Hermione.

 

“I have no doubt that the tower will be your favorite part of this entire villa, Miss Granger. But, Draco, be sure to show her the grounds before you go,” his mother instructed as Leta began doting on them all.

 

Hermione once again took in the dress on the tiny elf. “Some years back…perhaps four now, Draco requested we free all of our elves. None of them wanted to leave, so he had to work out a deal where we would pay them for their service. Of course, they couldn’t dress around the Dark Lord, but they did wear underwear under their potato sacks. We paid them under the table,” Mrs. Malfoy told her, eyeing the way she was staring in disbelief at the elf.

 

Four years? Four years prior, Hermione had made her S.P.E.W. campaign buttons and advocated relentlessly for the rights of house elves. She shot a look at Draco, who was looking at his cup of tea with wide, embarrassed eyes, his face turning pink. Even when she’d thought she hated him, and he her, he had listened to her. He’d freed his house elves for her. “And, how did the elves take it?” she asked, looking between mother and son.

 

“They didn’t go down without a fight,” Draco commented with a small laugh. “I had to threaten that I would free and then exile them if they didn’t comply with my wishes.”

 

Hermione looked at him incredulously. He shrugged. “What? It worked, didn’t it?”

 

“And how many elves do you have?”

 

“Currently, a team of one hundred. One of the girls is pregnant,” Mrs. Malfoy told her.

 

“One hundred?” Hermione nearly shrieked.

 

“When you see the size of our wine operation, you will understand,” the witch explained.

 

“All of them free?” Hermione asked, looking to Draco.

 

He nodded. “All of them. There is a compound on the property where they live. Rent free. They are free to spend their pay on anything they want. The girls enjoy handbags while my boys enjoy neck ties,” he commented, taking a bite of a biscuit. “Try these. They’re fabulous.”

 

Hermione did as told and found that they really were delightful. “Leta is our fabulous resident chef. And a fantastic pâtissier,” Mrs. Malfoy said and the tiny elf beamed from the corner.

 

“Mother, did you know that Hermione has a touch of Seer in her?” Draco said, changing the subject.

 

Mrs. Malfoy looked up at her son, raising an eyebrow. “Is that so? Quite a few Seers are born to Muggles as I understand it.”

 

“Really?” Hermione asked, kicking Draco under the table.

 

He smirked once more and ate another bite, purposely being smug as he did. Mrs. Malfoy nodded. “We’ve got a few books on the matter back at the Manor. I’m not sure about here, however. Tell me, how did it manifest to you? Draco never mentioned to me that you were besting him in the subject.”

 

“I stopped taking it in third year…though I regret that now,” Hermione told her ruefully. “More recently, I had a scrying mirror and saw a few images that have come to fruition thus far.”

 

“Oh? Like what?”

 

Hermione looked at Draco and he raised an amused eyebrow. “I saw Draco a couple of times.” _Every time._

 

Mrs. Malfoy was surprised by this. “Really? How curious.”

 

“We even tried it jointly,” Draco told his mother, sitting back in his chair.

 

“And what, pray tell, did you see?” she asked him politely.

 

“My apothecary,” he told her proudly, expertly avoiding any mention of their child.

 

His mother’s pale eyebrows shot into her hairline. “Oh, Draco. I know you’ve wanted that for so long. My boy is _quite_ the potioneer,” she said, turning to Hermione.

 

“Mother, she knows enough of my work from school,” he remarked, embarrassment staining his prominent cheeks.

 

“Don’t be modest, dear. Tell her of your experimentations,” his mother urged.

 

“Don’t boast. Don’t be modest. Which is it, mother?” he asked, agitated.

 

“Don’t be cross, Draco. I’m only proud of you,” she admonished.

 

“Sorry,” he told her, turning his eyes toward the table.

 

“Miss Granger—”

 

“Hermione.”

 

Mrs. Malfoy gave her a kind smile. “Hermione. Would you like to see the tower now?”

 

Hermione had no idea what was housed in that tower that the two were so adamant on her seeing, but she figured that Draco wouldn’t allow any harm to befall her. “Sure.”

 

Mrs. Malfoy stood and Draco followed suit. “Mother, I wondered if I might speak to you? Alone?”

 

The witch raised an eyebrow and nodded once. “Leta. Take Mistress Hermione to the tower, please. We’ll be there shortly.”

 

Leta stepped forward and took Hermione’s hand. Hermione shot a withering look toward Draco and he held up one finger, telling her “one moment.” Leta was speaking rapidly, but the witch was hardly listening. She caught bits and pieces, like “Mistress Herminnie will love it so!” and “Wait until Mistress Herminnie sees Master Draco’s favorite room!”

 

Her little legs carried her rapidly, pulling Hermione along. She opened the door and they stepped into a bright library, with shelves upon shelves of books. Hermione felt her jaw go slack. The room was much larger than it had looked from the outside, thanks to some clever wand work. Leta pulled her toward the center, a winding metal staircase leading down. To Hermione’s sheer delight, the walls going down the stairs were all lined with books on stone shelves, leading to a first floor that appeared similar to this one.

 

Hermione walked to the closest shelf and ran her fingers along the spines, pleasantly delighted at all of the ancient tomes. “Old books here, new books down,” Leta explained.

 

Hermione nodded her understanding. She walked to the shelf nearest the window and as she was getting ready to pluck a thick book on Herbology of the sixth century, the sight beyond the window caused her breath to hitch. Expanding as far as the eye could see, rows upon rows of grape vines spread out. There were elves dotted every so often, using magic to pluck grapes from the vines. _It was their vineyard. They would be wed here!_

 

She saw Draco walking out into the rows, stopping to talk to the nearest elf. He leaned down and gave the small elf a hug and Hermione noticed that she had the roundest of little bellies. The pregnant elf. Hermione was so transfixed by the sight that she didn’t hear Mrs. Malfoy come in behind her.

 

“He’s a good boy,” his mother remarked, watching Hermione watch him. “Loyal and brave to a fault.”

 

“I couldn’t agree more,” Hermione told her.

 

“I cannot lie, Miss Granger. I was raised to believe a certain way and for the longest time, I did. I would not have preferred you as a friend for my son.”

 

Here it was. The moment of truth. Mrs. Malfoy was pissed that she was spending so much time with Draco. Hermione had felt this was coming. “I care deeply for Draco.”

 

“And he for you. He has for a while, dear,” Mrs. Malfoy replied with a slight lift of one shoulder. “I am humble enough to admit when I am wrong. And I was wrong. I am quite glad he has someone so passionate and kind in his life. Draco has been through incredibly difficult times—as I’m sure you have as well. He needs someone who will be there to help him pick up the pieces when he begins to fall apart. He’s too old for his mother to step in. I just want to thank you for everything you are doing for him. And to extend a true apology to you. For everything. You are an exceptional witch.”

 

Hermione could feel herself staring at Mrs. Malfoy with her lips parted, her brow furrowed in confusion. She turned from watching her son to looking at Hermione. “Did you know that we spent every Christmas here until this past one?” she asked.

 

Hermione shook her head slowly. “No.”

 

“We came here to have private, intimate family time away from the hustle and bustle of England. Draco loved it here, especially when he brought his broom and zipped between the rows. I’d like to share Christmas with him here again this year. You, too, if you’d come.”

 

“I guess I always assumed that you held extravagant Christmas balls every year at the Manor,” Hermione told her, feeling stupid.

 

Mrs. Malfoy let out a gentle laugh. “When I was young, my mother made us attend every ball, gala and party she or any of her friends hosted. I was constantly dragged around the dance floor by men old enough to be my father, had to play the gracious child. When Lucius and I had Draco, we made the decision that that was not the life we cared to have. We hosted a ball or gala only when necessary and attended only when there was an opportunity for networking or money to be made.”

 

“That explains why Draco is such a crummy dancer,” Hermione remarked, to which Mrs. Malfoy fully laughed.

 

“He never quite picked up on it, did he?” she sighed. “We’re a private family, with Lucius only showing his face and arrogance when necessary to further our family or our business ventures. As you can imagine, having our business spread all over the press has been terribly taxing for us all.”

 

“I’m sorry you’ve had to go through that,” Hermione said, watching as a plump elf wearing a bright yellow necktie forced a cluster of grapes into Draco’s hands.

 

“I’m resilient. This is not our first War, not the first time our family’s name has been questioned. But it’s a first for Draco and I know it is taking its toll on him,” Mrs. Malfoy told her, looking regretful and ashamed.

 

“He’s stronger than he thinks he is,” Hermione retorted, looking up at her.

 

“He’s strong because he has someone to help him along, Hermione. Do not doubt the effect your friendship is having on him,” she replied, running a motherly hand over the curls down Hermione's back.

 

“I just want to show him that not everything in this world is bad. We’ve come through terrible things that no child should ever see. But we _survived_ ,” Hermione stated, looking into Mrs. Malfoy’s sad eyes.

 

“His father and I, we want the same for him. He has done so much for us in his short life and I’m embarrassed to admit that he stepped forward when I cowered in defeat. I owe him my life.”

 

“I do, too,” Hermione agreed. “I’m sure Mr. Malfoy will not be so…accepting of our friendship,” she said, biting her lip.

 

Mrs. Malfoy nodded. “Not at first. He’ll threaten Draco’s inheritance. But he wants what is best for his son, just as much as I do. He would never actually take his inheritance and he’ll come around. Probably after many nasty disagreements.”

 

“I wish it didn’t have to be that way. It would only serve to distress Draco more.”

 

“Lucius is very set in his ways. But he will see reason eventually. He’s had many dealings with Muggles over the years through the wine company. He’s not as intimidating as he _thinks_ he is.”

 

Hermione thought about that. Lucius was an actual Death Eater—that was pretty intimidating to her. Though, perhaps he acted only when given direct orders? Out of fear and desire to bring about a world where his beliefs reigned? Hermione had no doubt that Lucius would kill her if ordered, without a flinch or a second thought. Narcissa loved him, so she would obviously try to look at his finer points, but Hermione was going to be a hard sell.

 

“Would you like to stay here and look around? Or join Draco in the vineyard?” Mrs. Malfoy asked.

 

Hermione worried her lip between her teeth and looked around. She desperately wanted to curl up in a chair with every book in this room. But Draco was walking along the vineyard outside, she suspected to give his mother the privacy to speak to her alone. “I’ll join him.”

 

Mrs. Malfoy smirked. “You both come back soon and you can spend the day in here.”

 

Hermione nodded and walked down the long spiral staircase, nearly salivating at all of the books winding down with her. She left the tower and went into the warm October day. Draco looked up to see her ambling toward him and his face split with a genuine grin. He seemed at ease and _happy_ here—she wished he could stay here and ignore the cruel world beyond.

 

He held his hand out and she took it. “There’s some lovely beings here who would love to meet Mistress Herminnie,” he said, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Did you have a decent conversation with my mother?”

 

Hermione looked toward the tower window to find Narcissa Malfoy staring at the pair, her eyebrow raised and gaze on their interlocked fingers. “You were right. She’s much different than I expected. Humble.”

 

“Don’t get me wrong, cross her and you will regret it. She is still a Black, married to a Malfoy. Two families steeped in the Dark Arts. She’s a trained, ruthless dueler. But she’s docile and kind when she wants to be, as well,” Draco said, plucking a few grapes into his mouth as they strode.

 

o-o-o

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

 

Chapter 15:

 

As Hermione dressed the following Saturday morning for class, she found herself replaying the prior Saturday’s events over and over in her mind. Her conversation with Narcissa had been strange, to say the least. She’d thought of it obsessively all week. But the events that followed it had her heart racing, even as she slipped on tights a week later.

 

 _Hermione inhaled the crisp autumn air, allowing the coolness to fill her lungs in a pleasant way. Draco’s hand was firmly in hers, though she could_ feel _Mrs. Malfoy’s eyes on them. He had to know as well, but this was one more outward expression of his solidarity with her and his rising comfort in their closeness. “Draco…what did you and your mother speak about when you were alone? She’s watching us.”_

_He chuckled and raised an eyebrow, holding out a grape to her. “You’ll find out soon enough. It had nothing to do with you and me.”_

_This piqued Hermione’s interest, but she knew better than to press the issue. She looked around and the short, plumply pregnant elf walked around the closest row to stand in front of them. She curtsied as best she could in her state. “Mistress Herminnie! It is a pleasure for Darla to meet you! Look what Mister Draco brought Darla!”_

_The tiny elf pulled up the hem of her dress, and there on her feet was a red pair of socks Hermione had knitted in fourth year. She looked at Draco who was blushing and looking at his own dragon leather boots. “I’m so pleased you like them,” Hermione said kindly._

_“When Mistress Herminnie has time, Darla would like to show her the collection!” the elf replied, her ears flapping happily as she nodded._

_“I’d love that. And congratulations on your baby!” Hermione said as Draco prodded her along._

_Darla left them alone and the couple continued walking. “Where did you get those?” Hermione asked him._

_“Dobby used to collect them and bring them to me when he found out I was freeing the Malfoy elves. He was the only one brave enough to clean your Commons,” Draco laughed._

_Hermione smiled to herself and wanted to toss her arms around his neck and kiss him. He’d done something sweet, long before she’d known him to be sweet. “So,” he began, and she could_ hear _the smirk in his voice, “does this look familiar?”_

_She looked around. It was early October and the last of the grapes were being plucked as the leaves of the vines began to change. But it was undeniably the same vineyard she’d envisioned. “Vaguely,” she played coy._

_Draco snorted a short laugh. “You know, that_ was _a vague journal entry, come to think of it. Tell me, Granger, was there a big archway here?” he said, stepping into a clearing where the vision had showed them marrying._

_Hermione looked around and her heart began racing. He obviously knew she was the bride now and he was evidently pleased by this. “There was, in fact, you stood there. Crying like a baby as I strode down the aisle toward you.”_

_“Well,” he began, turning them where the arch would one day sit, “there’s one of two reasons for that. One, I just realized I’d have to wake up with that owl’s nest you call hair in my face, suffocating me, each morning.”_

_Hermione swatted him. He laughed heartily. “Or, two, you looked so beautiful that you moved a man to tears.”_

_She looked up at him and he had a small smile on his face as he watched her tuck a curl behind her ear. It bounced back to her cheek and he lifted his hand and brushed it over her shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll get there one day, Granger.”_

_Hermione wanted to scream at this sentiment. He said it so often, as though he were positive. She took his other hand as well, looking down at both of their hands between them. Why the delicate tango they were currently engaged in? It occurred to her then—Draco was a terrible dancer. He was nervous and terrified. She wanted to alleviate that fear and apprehension for him, but she knew he had to proceed on_ his _terms. She leaned up and gave him a kiss on the cheek, to which he smiled widely. “We should head back—McGonagall only gave us three hours,” he told her, smiling smugly to himself._

o-o-o

 

“Do you want to go to that?” Draco asked Hermione as they sat at the end of the Slytherin table for lunch.

 

He jabbed his thumb toward the newly posted banner. _Masquerade Ball—Come One, Come All—All Hallow’s Eve._ Hermione wrinkled her nose at it. “No…just another reason to dress up and dance. Do you?”

 

He shook his head. “No one would be receptive to the idea of a Death Eater wearing a mask in a room full of children,” he replied, shifting in his seat.

 

“We could do something else, if you’d like. Maybe go to Hogsmeade,” she told him, wanting to avoid his mood souring.

 

“Actually…I have something else in mind. A place my mother used to take me when I was a child to celebrate Samhain,” he suggested.

 

Hermione raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “I’m up for anything at this point.”

 

He took a bite of potato. “I’m really glad you agreed to accompany me to St. Mungo’s today…I _may_ have told the children last time that you would be there.”

 

“That was awfully presumptive. What if I decided in the last two weeks that I couldn’t stand you?” she challenged.

 

He rolled his eyes. “We both know that would never happen. I’m too damn appealing.”

 

Though Hermione laughed, she wondered what he would say if he knew that she’d thought that same sentiment too many times before. “Well, come on, hot stuff. It’s nearly noon.”

 

He stood from the table and they walked out together. He slipped his fingers easily into hers. Just as they passed the Gryffindor table, Ginny looked at their clasped hands with an eyebrow raised. Hermione knew she was in for it later—they were pretty well glued at the hips and palms as of late and she had actively been avoiding the redhead. Though they were openly friendly and affectionate, they weren’t a couple yet and Ginny had a way of interrogating that cheapened a moment.

 

Hermione shook her head slightly and the Gryffindor glared. Ginny could only be put off so long. The thought made Hermione scream internally. There were constant whispers behind cupped hands and filthy looks cast their way. It had, unfortunately, had the opposite effect on Hermione’s hopeful suitors—they’d nearly tripled their efforts; after all, if a Death Eater had a chance with the Golden Girl, why wouldn’t they?

 

When they were alone in the hall, she saw him looking at her from the corners of his eyes, a smile playing at his lips. “What are you so pleased about?”

 

“I have something to show you before we see the children…first, I need to stop by my room,” he told her, leading them up to the third floor.

 

“It still fascinates me that you, _the_ Draco Malfoy, could possibly go and entertain orphans,” she said, an air of awe in her tone.

 

“Ouch, Granger. You don’t think I can be _gentle_?” he teased, dropping her hand to enter his room.

 

Hermione tried desperately not to think of the inflection he put on the word _gentle_. “It’s not that. I’m sure you’re great with them. It’s just…you insulted a hippogriff and had your arse handed to you…”

 

Draco returned from his room, a guitar case in hand, a joyous laugh in his throat. “I’m not thirteen any more, Granger.”

 

“You’re going to play guitar?” Hermione asked, running her finger along the case’s soft brown leather.

 

“I’d thought about it, yeah,” he ran a hand over the nape of his neck, embarrassed.

 

“Merlin…you’re not going to _sing_ are you?” she asked, feigning horror.

 

He narrowed his eyes. “Watch your tongue, witch. Or I will sing you _all ten_ verses of ‘Tiny Dragons’. In _French._ And my French is worse than my dancing,” he threatened teasingly.

 

Draco was so lighthearted it made Hermione’s heart swell. Usually melancholy and crestfallen, she was seeing a completely different side to him the last few Saturdays she’d spent with him. He enjoyed getting away from the torment and shame that being at Hogwarts brought on a daily basis. “And I’m sure you’ve already written me a love song? Something sure to serenade me?” she smirked, watching as he shrunk the guitar case to pocket size.

 

A pretty blush washed across his cheeks, almost as rosy as the tip of his tongue that darted out to wet his lips. “Of course not.”

 

Hermione was not convinced. Draco turned away to hide his face and led her out and toward the Headmistress’ office to floo out to St. Mungo’s. He rapped on the door and Professor McGonagall opened it. “Mr. Malfoy, Miss Granger. Do come in. Biscuit?”

 

They both declined politely. “Professor…do you think we could have an extra hour today?” Draco asked.

 

Professor McGonagall raised her face and looked down her nose at the pair, her look as stern as ever. “I suppose. Not a minute longer, though, Mr. Malfoy. Or detention for a week.”

 

Draco nodded. Hermione glared. The elder witch was no more stern or threatening than usual, but she felt as though her tone could be kinder considering Draco was being polite and meek. He placed a hand at the small of her back and pushed her toward the fireplace. He dropped a handful of powder in and they were both ushered away to the waiting room of St. Mungo’s. “McGonagall had this opened for me. It’s only open every other Saturday,” he explained, brushing some soot from her shoulder. “But enough about this…come with me. I have a surprise for you.”

 

His tone was excited and palpably anxious. The cogs in Hermione’s head began turning as she thought of what he could possibly have as a surprise at a hospital. Her hand was clasped firmly within his, and she noted that his palms were beginning to perspire as he led her through a large doorway into a glass framed atrium. A sign hung in the far corner. MEMORY CENTER.

 

Her ears began ringing and she barely registered the sound of his voice when he spoke—it sounded as though he were under water. “I have someone I want you to meet, Granger.”

 

She nodded numbly as he led her into a waiting room within the memory center. “Draco Malfoy. Here to see Healer Holcomb,” he told the young witch behind the receptionist’s counter.

 

The auburn-haired witch looked between the pair, first giving Hermione an awestruck stare and then giving Draco a frozen glare. Hermione leaned into her. “I believe he asked to see Healer Holcomb. Now, please.”

 

The witch nodded at Hermione and left to retrieve the Healer. Draco looked ashamed at the witch’s blatant hatred and Hermione squeezed his fingers between his. “It’s okay.”

 

He nodded and then smiled widely when a middle-aged Healer walked through the door, the agitated receptionist following him. “Draco! I haven’t see you since you were this tall!” he said, holding his hand three feet off the ground.

 

“Yes, well, I’m only marginally taller and no more wiser now, Healer Holcomb,” Draco told him, shaking his hand.

 

“And this must be Miss Hermione Granger,” the man said, lifting her hand to his lips as he bowed.

 

“Pleasure,” Hermione heard herself saying.

 

“Can we go somewhere private to speak?” Draco asked, gesturing over his shoulder at where two wizards were eavesdropping.

 

“Of course. Of course, right this way,” the Healer ushered them into an office.

 

“What is this all about?” Hermione asked, finally finding her voice in her curiosity.

 

Draco and the Healer shared a glance and Draco’s smile spread once more. “Mr. Malfoy here contacted me the first of this week. I owe his mother a favor, you see.”

 

“Why did you contact him?” she asked Draco, confusion clouding her thoughts.

 

“Granger,” he pulled her hand and gently eased her back so that she was sitting in a chair behind the desk. “Healer Holcomb is the lead Healer in the memory ward here at St. Mungo’s.”

 

“Okay,” she said slowly.

 

“His specialty is _reversing the Obliviate spell,”_ Draco told her, waiting for it all to sink in.

 

The thoughts were racing through her head faster than she could capture any one. He placed his hand over where hers was shaking. “I’ve hired him and a team of five others to head to Australia. If you approve, of course.”

 

Hermione was looking at the Healer, her mouth slack and hanging. He smiled kindly, pity etched in every crevice of his face. She felt hot tears splash in her cheeks and her arm ghosted out of nowhere to wipe them away, but every movement felt like someone else's. “I’ll leave you two alone to discuss,” Healer Holcomb said, leaving the room.

 

Draco knelt in front of where Hermione was sitting, wringing the hem of her dress as her emotions threatened to truly overwhelm her. He pushed her hair away from her face and then ran his thumbs over her wet cheeks. “Why are you crying? I thought you’d be happy…I can fire him if you want…”

 

Hermione shook her head as her chin quivered and tears fell. Her throat was painfully thick with unexpressed emotion as she put her arms around him and pulled him into her. Hermione had worried so much over his well-being, his psyche, his fragile heart. And the whole time, he was worried about _her_. The concept was humbling and she was growing overcome with the impact of it. The meaning behind it. The _love_ behind his act. They may not have been a courting couple, but the love and respect and worry for one another was certainly between them.

 

He hugged her back gently, in contrast to the near strangulation she was causing him. Hermione could feel his hand smoothing over her curls and he was shushing her lightly. “Don’t cry. No doubt Arthur Weasley tried, but…Healer Holcomb will get them back—he’s the best in the world.”

 

Draco pulled back and wiped her tears once more, placing a brush of his lips on either cheek and running his thumb over her worn bottom lip. “If there is a way in this world to bring them back, these Healers will do it,” he told her, his silver eyes searching her chocolate ones.

 

“Draco-“ her voice cracked, as she held the back of his neck with one hand and ran her fingertips over his jaw. “I don’t know how to repay you…this is too much…I’m sure it’s bound to cost a fortune…”

 

He looked between them and shrugged. “Mother is allowing me access to my inheritance early.”

 

“I don’t want you to have to use your inheritance!”

 

He gave her a small upturn of one corner of his mouth. “It’s _our_ inheritance, isn’t it?”

 

His tender tone and words cut through her chest. He pulled her in for another hug and this time, he wasn’t quite as gentle. He squeezed her tightly, as though to reinforce that he was there for her. “I’ll do what I can for you. Always,” her told her. “You’ve helped me so much…you’ll never know.”

 

Draco pulled back once more and wiped her remaining tears, whispering a drying charm. “Let’s go see the children. Healer Holcomb has already given me an entire book of instructions for you to follow…don’t worry, I’ll help you through it.”

 

He stood and held his hand out once more to her. Hermione wanted to cry some more, wanted to go to the bathroom and cry until she had no more tears. Not out of sadness. Not out of happiness. But out of overwhelming _appreciation_. Draco gave Healer Holcomb a single nod as they passed and the Healer smiled kindly at Hermione. “We’ll set up an appointment for you. The first of November.”

 

She nodded dumbly. “Thank you. For everything.”

 

“Don’t thank me. Thank young Mr. Malfoy. He was _quite_ persuasive,” the Healer let out a quiet cough of a laugh.

 

At the opposite end of the large glass atrium, there was a large statue, etched and carved of glass, of a wizard, seemingly Merlin himself, draped with smiling children. “I’m really excited for you to meet these children. They feel almost like my own kids in some ways,” Draco told her.

 

Hermione ran her fingertips along the glass statue and craned her neck to see the top of the impossibly tall structure. They entered through a set of double doors into what looked more like a boarding home than a hospital. There was a large commons area, with three separate hallways leading off from it. Doors lined the corridors.

 

“Mr. Dragon!” a small boy shrieked, throwing his arms around Draco’s torso.

 

“Hello, Artemis. Have you been good and listened to everything Healer Growlen has told you?” he asked, his tone soft in the way one uses to address children.

 

The boy gave him a small smile and nodded. “Go and get Alya, will you? And bring some coloring quills and parchment, will you?”

 

Artemis nodded bashfully once more and took off running down the hall. A group of five others—two boys and three girls—started bombarding him. “You read!”

 

“Read this one!”

 

“No, he’s going to read _this one!”_

 

Hermione raised her eyebrow and laughed lightly at the tiny children. “Everyone…do you remember when I told you that I was going to bring Miss Minnie, too?”

 

They all nodded emphatically and Draco held his hand out, gesturing for Hermione to take it and come forth. “This is Miss Minnie, everyone. Remember what I told you?”

 

“Hi, Miss Minnie!” they all said in unison.

 

“Hello, all,” Hermione replied with a kind smile.

 

“Miss Minnie was very brave during the war!” Draco told the children and they all rounded on her in awe.

 

“I thought only boys were in the War?” asked one little boy.

 

Hermione noticed he had a terrible limp and was thinner than a boy of his age should be, but was otherwise sharp as a tack. Unwanted because of a mild deformity. She looked at the happiness on the boys’ features at seeing her.

 

“Do you know what Miss Minnie brought for all of you, since you’ve all been so good?” Draco asked, pulling his guitar and case from his pocket and enlarging them.

 

A shy little girl shook her head. “A present?”

 

“That’s right, Jules. A present,” Draco remarked, opening his guitar case and retrieving a small velvet sack.

 

He pulled a fistful of chocolate frogs from the bag and handed them to each child in turn. The children all squealed in delight. “Are you going to sing a song, Mr. Dragon?” Artemis asked, returning from gathering Alya.

 

“No, no. I’m going to play the music. Miss Minnie is going to sing!” he told them, his eyes going wide and grinning.

 

Hermione glared at him, but his mood was too bright for her to sour. “Miss Minnie also does the _best_ voices when she reads! Why don’t you all go pick a book for her?”

 

The children all ran to the bookshelves and Hermione noticed for the first time a shy girl, standing in the shadows of the corridor. When she stepped into the light of the Commons, Hermione got a good view of her. A slight girl of eight, with hair of the finest blond silk and eyes of crystal cobalt. A shy smirk on her lips.

 

o-o-o

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

 

Chapter 16:

 

_Draco stood behind Granger, his hand on her lower back while he smiled an excited grin. “This is Alya,” he said proudly and he watched as a perplexed look covered her face._

_He stepped around her and knelt in front of the girl. Granger watched in awed curiosity as his hands moved, communicating in perfect sign language with the girl. She responded and Draco laughed and nodded. He looked back at Granger and gestured for her to come forth.  She did so hesitantly and Draco held out a hand to her. She slipped her hand into his and he tapped it with his wand, whispering ‘Motus!’ under his breath. Then he tapped just below her ear with a quiet, ‘Audite!’_

_“You can say something. Your hands will work to translate,” he told her._

_She raised an eyebrow. “Hello, Alya. My name is…Minnie. Draco has told me a lot about you,” she said aloud, and her hands worked of their own accord._

_She watched as the girl’s hands moved, and then a voice—her own, Draco knew—spoke in her head, translating Alya’s signed words. **He has told me a lot about you, too**._

_Granger looked at him and he was carefully guarded, watching their interaction with worry. He bit his lip and gestured to an empty table, his nerves eating him up. “Why don’t we sit and you can draw Miss Minnie a picture? She would love that,” Draco said aloud and with his hands._

_The girl nodded, skipping to retrieve fresh parchment and color quills. Draco took Hermione’s hand and they made their way to the table. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Granger asked him, her hands speaking though they didn’t need to with him. “You don’t even need the translating spells…you’ve been coming here more than a couple of months…”_

_Draco nodded, blocking her hands from Alya’s view by standing in front of her. “Tell you what, Granger? That my parents are one of the pure-blooded families that abandoned a child?” he demanded quietly, shame coloring his tone._

_“But, your mother—”_

_“Is on probation. They brought Alya here when she was one, when the Dark Lord was actively trying to rise to power during our second year. With his view on eugenics and strong magical blood, they couldn’t very well have her at home. I’ve been trying to help mother with the paperwork necessary to be allowed to bring her home to France. Beauxbatons will be able to assist her when she turns eleven,” Draco explained._

_“Is there nothing that can be done?” she asked, touching her ear._

_Draco shook his head slowly. “There are some things that even magic can’t fix.”_

Draco had really gone and blown things now. After such a blissful week with Granger, she was sure to drop him like a bad habit. It had been one week since she was made privy to the Malfoys’ darkest secret and she hadn’t run off yet. In fact, Granger had been curious and asked every question under the sun. After Draco had realized that she would never tell anyone any of the information he relayed to her, he’d opened up to her and told her everything he knew.

 

As they’d laid in his bed each night that week, their hands clasped between them, they’d talked late into the night each time, until one or both of them had drifted off. He’d told her how his parents had tried for ten years after his birth to have another child. His mother had gone through a series of miscarriages and failed pregnancy attempts before she’d finally gotten pregnant with Alya. The couple was able to keep it secret with loose robes and Mother only going out when absolutely necessary. She hadn’t thought she’d survive it if the _Daily Prophet_ ran another story about her losing a child. But Alya was born, full-term, much to his parents’ delight. At the same time that it became evident that she’d been born without the ability to hear, his father had realized the Dark Lord was actively attempting to come back to power. His parents had brought Alya to St. Mungo’s. She had a tutor to teach her basic skills and the Malfoy family had visited her when they could. Draco hadn’t missed his every other Saturday in years, even going around scheduled Quidditch games earlier in life.

 

Granger had been curious about so much more. She wanted to know _about_ Alya. Was she brilliant, like her older brother? “Much smarter than me.” Did she have a good sense of humor? “She’s mischievous and sly as a fox.” Did she know about any of her family’s part in the War? “Only that a bad man made us do bad things, and that he’s gone now.” Did she feel abandoned? “She is intuitive—I think she understands.” Draco never expected Granger to so readily accept this shameful secret and to pass no judgment on him or his mother. She knew that they’d done what they’d needed to. Granger just _understood_ all of the emotions and feelings that Draco couldn’t put into words.

 

And in those long nights in his room, the fire dying as they spoke until the sun splashed rose and violet hues through the early morning sky, Granger opened up to him as well. Her parents hadn’t been able to conceive her until they were well into their thirties and after that, they’d stopped trying, feeling too blessed with the one child they’d been given. She spoke of her ability to feel sympathetic to his single-child struggles. She’d been lonely for the entirety of her life as well.

 

Granger had told him of her childhood, of growing up with uncontrolled magic with Muggle parents who didn’t understand. How she’d always gotten into trouble when others upset her and she was able to knock them over without touching them. Draco recounted how his magic had manifested when he was upset with his parents, resulting from full blown temper tantrums.

 

He’d coaxed stories of her childhood and memories of her parents from her. The pair had spoken into the night and each morning, and awoke after only a few hours more refreshed than either had been in months. Draco looked forward to her arrival each night. Having her know and accept his words unconditionally meant more to him than anything.

 

Every day, Draco felt this uncontrollable pull toward the quirky, beautiful witch. He longed to hear her tinkling laugh when he said something humorous. He enjoyed lying alongside her each night, her sweet cinnamon smell enveloping his every thought as she spoke with one hand out above them, their other hands clasped. Her presence was a balm for the blistery, self-deprecating thoughts he usually had. He knew he was acting selfishly—Granger deserved so much better than what he could ever offer her.

 

That morning, Granger had left his room early, promising to return after she’d showered and made a stop past the library to retrieve a few books to assist with their Ancient Runes homework. Draco had slipped his journal into her box and it was the biggest mistake he’d made in a long time. What he had written in it would only serve to ruin their tender friendship.

 

Draco paced his room, panicking now. He had ruined it. He tried to take some steadying breaths and ran both hands through his hair. That was it. He had to go get that journal—Granger absolutely could not read what he’d written.

 

He left his room, his heart thudding uncomfortably when he rounded the corner and saw her back retreating into her room. Draco patted his thighs on either side, rocking on the balls of his feet. Maybe he could just go in and take it back, claim he had more to add before she read it. Deciding that was the best course of action, he went forth and bravely let himself into her dorm. “Granger?” he called, not wanting to startle her.

 

“Couldn’t go just a few hours without me?” she responded from within her room.

 

Shit. Now she didn’t even want him around and here he was, encroaching on her personal time and space. “Er—Granger, I wanted to get my journal back. There was more I wanted to add.”

 

He went into her room as he spoke and found her lying on her bed, her feet on the headboard and her hair splayed out behind her on her plush burgundy bedding. And in her hands, she had propped up his journal, turning the pages until she found the most current. “It’s okay. I’ll read what you have to start.”

 

He went to the side of her bed, leaning forward to attempt to retrieve the book. She gave him a playful look. “Excuse me. I’m reading here.”

 

Draco’s heart began to flutter. Granger absolutely could not read that entry. She would never forgive him. He tried to act nonchalant about it, deciding to try his charm to coax it from her fingers. “It would be more meaningful if you let me finish it,” he told her, leaning onto the bed with one knee and giving the book a gentle tug.

 

She held onto it with a death grip and used both hands to hug it to herself, rolling onto her side to hide it. “Now I’m curious. I’ve got to read it—must be good if you want it back so badly,” she told him, laughing loudly.

 

A smile played at his own lips, despite the mortification he felt inside. Draco leaned on one palm by her head, using his other fingers to dig lightly into her sides. “Give me the book, Granger,” he cooed close to her ear.

 

She squealed a loud, gleeful laugh and hid her face, her arms and knees still drawn and carefully protecting the journal. He could feel his own smile spreading widely across his face at the sound of her laughter. “Give it to me!” he told her, sliding his hand from her waist and down over her stomach to where she was half-lying on the book.

 

Granger let out another hearty, loud shriek of laughter and rolled off the bed, landing on her feet. She was looking at Draco with a challenge in her eyes, fiery and passionate. Her hair was wild around her face, glowing in the early afternoon sunlight as it filtered through the window. Her cheeks were staining pink with excitement and her tongue darted out to wet her lips. He narrowed his eyes and backed off of her bed slowly, inching his way around the foot of the bed. She tried to run, but his Seeker’s agility and speed had her beat. He was standing in front of her, blocking her path from the side of the bed. “What is in here that you don’t want me to see? Hmm?” she asked, tauntingly opening the book. “Is it a love letter?” she teased.

 

 _If you only knew!_ “No, but it is incredibly embarrassing,” he replied, his cheeks burning as he slipped a finger into the open book and tried to pull it from her grasp.

 

She pulled the book from him and hid it behind her back. “Fine. You tell me the subject matter and I’ll give it back to you.”

 

“I hardly think that’s fair,” he told her.

 

“Well, it’s hardly fair to keep me in suspense. You’re being a tease,” she told him as he took another step closer to her.

 

“A tease? _I’m a tease?_ ” he asked, his brain beginning to get foggier the closer he got to Granger. “And what about you?”

 

“What about me? I’ve done nothing to tease you!” she replied, and his face was close to hers.

 

Draco could smell warm tea and cinnamon and it was intoxicating. He slipped his arm around her, leaning down slightly to circle his fingers around the wrist that held his journal. “Just give me the book and this can all be over,” he whispered, though he was no longer trying to reach the book.

 

His hand had slipped from her wrist to her waist. “What if I don’t want this to be over?” she challenged, placing one hand on his chest.

 

“Do you always have some sassy remark?” he questioned, his face so close to hers that their noses brushed.

 

“I’m sure you could think of a way to shut me up,” she told him and he could nearly taste the cinnamon.

 

Draco let out a rumble of agreement at the back of his throat and brushed his lips across hers, effectively silencing her. He placed one hand on her neck, just under her hair and the other remained on her hip. She dropped the book with a loud clatter and placed both hands on his chest, running them up slowly to his shoulders. Draco felt her smile into his lips and he drew courage from that, gliding his tongue slowly over her bottom lip. Granger opened her mouth and kissed him slowly, pulling him closer to her with a firm hand knotted into the hair at the nape of his neck.

 

As Granger kissed him back, Draco was sure the world was crashing down around them. He could hear nothing beyond her—not the crackling of the fire in her fireplace, not the sound of birds or students from outside of her cracked window, not the soft music she had playing in her Muggle contraption. No. All he could hear was the sweet sighs of contentment she made when she pulled back slightly and repositioned so she could kiss down his jaw. Draco heard himself make an almost whimpering noise and the hand that had touched her neck and jaw moved to rest, palm to wall, so he could hold himself upright, his knees going weak.

 

Draco could see nothing but her. Not the world beyond the window. Not the journal on the floor behind her. Not the shadows playing across her walls as the sun shifted in the sky. All he could see was her. As she peppered kisses down his jaw and then over his neck, his eyes fluttered open and he saw only her in his blissful haze. He looked down between them and watched her face as she pulled back and looked up at him. Granger was radiant. Her mouth was rosier than usual, a little puffy from his own. Her eyes, hooded and filled with a burning curiosity, looked him over appreciatively. She quirked an eyebrow at him and raised her face to his once more, pulling him to her.

 

He could feel nothing but her. Draco didn’t feel the cool air filtering in, or the hot air at his back as the fire burned lowly to create the perfect temperature. He didn’t feel the cool stone of the wall he was holding onto for dear life. All he could feel was Granger. His other hand was still at her hip, gripping the fabric of her skirt in his fist. He felt her fingertips graze his jaw, his neck, his chest and then, her fingernails were raking lightly over his hips, just under his shirt.

 

All he could taste was her sweet kiss—all warm tea and cinnamon sticks. He was certain that he had never had anything so delicious in his entire life and this would be a taste he was not soon to forget. He could barely breathe, but when he managed a breath here and there, he could smell her scent—a warm fire, parchment, cinnamon. Granger smelled like October, but she kissed like July—an all-encompassing heat that warmed Draco to his very core.

 

She pulled away, breathing heavily, and she looked down between them, letting out a soft giggle. She buried her face into his chest and he let out a breathy laugh of his own. Draco brushed her hair away from her face, sweeping it over her shoulders and pushing it back from her forehead with his fingertips. “Granger,” his voice was a raspy whisper before he planted a trail of kisses over her forehead, one on the tip of her nose, each cheek and then back chastely on her lips.

 

“You know I wouldn’t have read it, right?” she asked, pulling back only long enough to speak before kissing the base of his neck.

 

“Read what?” he asked, his brain incapable of actually thinking a single comprehensive thought.

 

Granger grinned against the skin of his neck before pulling away. “The journal. I wouldn’t have read it if you didn’t want me to. I just wanted to get a rise out of you.”

 

The journal? What in the bloody hell was Granger talking about? He pulled away and she bent between them and retrieved the journal from the floor, handing it to him. Reason slowly began to return to him as he looked at the book. “It…it makes more sense now, I suppose. Go ahead and read it.”

 

She looked at it and lowered it. “Not if it will make you uncomfortable.”

 

“When you asked if it’s a love letter…it’s not…necessarily. But it is embarrassing for me to be so open about something such as this,” he told her, backing away from her slightly.

 

Granger stepped forward, placing her hand on his hip. “Don’t go. Don’t run away.”

 

Everything within him told him that he had ruined it all. If he’d thought he’d destroyed her trust and friendship before in writing that journal entry, he had royally screwed up now by kissing her. “I’m sorry, Granger. I-“

 

She placed a single finger over his lips. “Don’t. Don’t apologize. You have no idea how many times I’ve wanted to kiss you.”

 

Draco raised an eyebrow and a small, bashful smile played at his lips. “I’m that irresistible, huh?”

 

She laughed and swatted his chest. “You’re incorrigible.”

 

Granger poked her finger into his chest and pushed him back so he sat on the edge of the bed. She sat next to him and opened the journal. Draco let out a groan and flopped back on her bed. She looked down at him and laced her fingers with his. “Are you sure?” she asked him once more.

 

He nodded. She laid back next to him, holding the open journal in front of her with one hand.

 

o-o-o

 

_17 October 1998_

_Granger,_

_Here I am, hiding behind the pages of this book once more. I don’t know if my cowardice will ever cease. I don’t even know what to write, any more than I know what to say, really. Except that something has changed. I like to think it’s mutual, but I could be way off. After all, why would someone as innocent, brilliant and beautiful as you are want to be anywhere near me?_

_I lie awake at night, sometimes alone, but even those nights when you are right beside me, and think of everything I know of your visions. If someone had told me two months ago that I would fall asleep and awaken with thoughts of you, and only you, I would have thought them crazy. But, Granger, in just the short time we’ve been close, you’ve managed to enchant me. I think of your visions, of our vision, and I want nothing more than to make it become reality. You must think me crazy; falling so quickly for you._

_You have saved me, more than I think you could ever truly know. I have been in such a dark place for so long and just your bright, cheery existence is enough to lighten my heart most days. I have wished, too many times over, for everything to cease, not truly believing there was anything left for me in this world. But then you came along, and, Merlin, I’m so selfish. I know you deserve so much more than I have to offer, but I just want to spend more time, basking in your glowing disposition. For as long as you’ll allow me._

_You’ve changed everything. The way I think, feel, perceive the world around me. How I think about, feel about and perceive **you**. I know there are no words in all of the world’s languages to convey how heavy my heart is when I think of how horribly I have treated you over the years. How truly sorry I am for everything I’ve ever done or said that hurt you, caused you to cry. Not to convey it properly anyway._

_I cannot begin to think why I so readily took to emulating my father’s attitude and prejudices. Do you know, when I was younger, he had me convinced that your blood was so muddied that you would bleed brown? Brown—like mud and dirt and decay. How fucked up is it to tell your son this? How fucked up is it to believethat? But I’ve seen enough to know that is simply untrue. There is nothing ‘dirty’ about you. _

_In fact, I do now associate the color with you. But not because of blood or mud or being dirty or soiled. No, not at all. It’s just…it’s you. Your warm and inviting demeanor is so like the warmth of the fire that warms a cool autumn night. Your laugh is more hypnotic than the crunching of the autumn leaves. Your hair is not one shade, but so many delightful shades of mahogany, chestnut, honey and auburn all mixing into the most pleasantly radiant shade of brown._

_Your eyes, so big and radiant and holding all of the wisdom of a witch well beyond your years, are like the finest chocolate. When I am fortunate enough for you to grace me with a look in my direction, I can scarce breathe from the passion and fire that seem to endlessly smolder in your eyes._

_Your skin, always glowing with an inward beauty, is the most delightful shade of bronze, the splash of freckles on your nose and shoulders is so naturally pretty. You don’t even have to try. You don’t have to pile cosmetics and glamour charms on, one after the other. I’ve seen you when you first awaken in the morning, your hair a voluminous mass of umber and gold, your gorgeous eyes sparkling. That’s when you’re prettiest._

_Even your scent, so sweet and mild, has transformed in my mind. I can’t smell a cup of coffee without thinking of your hands cupped around a mug at the breakfast table. I’ve begun to stir my morning tea with a cinnamon stick, if nothing more than to have something that reminds me of you before class. The scent of well-worn parchment in old, leather-bound tomes. It means one thing—home._

_I hope you don’t find it strange that I have stared at you long enough in the last month and a half to see all of these changes. I can’t believe I ever thought you plain, because now I find it difficult to tear my eyes from you most days. I could absolutely kick my own arse for my stupidity._

_I know I have no right to ask you for anything in life—I owe you my own life. But I just want you to know that no matter what I’ve ever said, none of that ‘Mudblood’ mess means a damn thing to me. It never truly has, and it sickens me to think that I was the one to introduce you to the phrase and that it is my family who is responsible for the reminder every day when you look in the mirror._

_I know I don’t deserve your friendship, let alone a chance at courting you. I want to love you, I just don’t know how. But I hope, one day, you can find it in your heart to give me the chance to try and make your visions become our reality._

_-Draco_

Hermione could feel the tears welling in her eyes, a thick feeling in her throat when she tried to swallow. She reread the letter once more and then closed the book and set it beside her. Draco was still lying alongside her and she could see, even under his arm, that his entire face was scarlet and splotchy.

 

She gulped down some air and leaned up to gently try to pry his arm from his face. He refused to open his eyes and she was once again aware that he expected rejection. Hermione ran a fingertip down his cheek and jaw. “Draco,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

 

“I’ll go,” he said, moving to sit up.

 

Hermione put her hand in the center of his chest and pushed him back into laying down. “No. Don’t go anywhere.”

 

“This is incredibly embarrassing, Granger.”

 

She silenced him with another kiss. She leaned over him, placing her hand over his pulse point. She could feel his rapid pulse beneath her palm and knew her own probably felt the same beneath where both of his hands were cupping her face gently.

 

Even after all of the hurt and darkness he’d been through, he still had the capacity to be tender and loving and kind. He really had no idea that she’d felt the same way since the first day they’d come back to Hogwarts. She pulled away slightly, moving to push his hair away from his forehead with her fingertips. His skin was still flushed, but he had a genuinely handsome smile gracing his features.

 

“I have no idea how to do this, either. But I’ve wanted to try since the first time I watched you in the scrying mirror. And every day that we’ve spent together since then. Each day, you get a little more selfless and slip a little farther from your past,” she told him, smiling as well. “I really enjoy being with you.”

 

And with that, he lifted his face and kissed her once more, winding his arms around her and holding her close to himself. Hermione’s mind went blank as she gave in to Draco’s gentle, unsure kisses—so endearing and bashful, but full of honesty and hope.

 

o-o-o


	17. Chapter 17

 

Chapter 17:

 

That night, Granger came past his room earlier than usual. Draco was sitting with his back to the door, strumming a tune on his guitar absently. That afternoon had been the best in his life—there wasn’t a single day he could think of that ranked higher. He’d kissed her, she’d kissed back! He couldn’t keep the smile from his face as he put his head back against the couch, his fingers working of their own accord.

 

There was a soft knock at his door and he heard her come in. She was wearing baggy clothing, clearly ready for bed. Granger stood shyly alongside the couch as he put his guitar away. “What’s the matter?” Draco asked, getting worried at her bashful countenance.

 

She gestured over her shoulder at his bedroom door. “How do we do this now?”

 

“Do what?” he asked, confused.

 

“Well…now that we’re…whatever we are…”

 

Draco wrinkled his brow. “What do you mean? ‘Whatever we are?’”

 

Granger wrung her hands, twisting her jumper sleeve between her fingers. “Well, what _are_ we, exactly?”

 

Draco felt his mouth go dry. They’d only kissed for that first time that day. But they’d been getting closer for weeks. He’d thought they’d been more than friends for a while now. He shrugged, suddenly uncertain and he felt a sharp pang through his heart. Maybe she didn’t think of him the same way. Maybe she was caught up in the moment when he’d kissed her. Maybe she’d reread his letter and changed her mind. “What do you want to be, Draco?” she rearranged her question, stepping into him.

 

He swallowed thickly. How should he answer that? He thought it was evident. “Yours,” was his faint whisper.

 

He laced his fingers through hers at her sides and she leaned forward to kiss him. “Then, I ask again. How are we supposed to do this whole ‘sleeping’ thing? It was easy when we weren’t courting—we were friends, with boundaries…” her voice trailed off.

 

“Do you think I’m suddenly going to pounce on you?” Draco asked, amused now that he knew her attitude was more about her uncertainty in sharing a bed and not in being with him. “Granger…it took me _weeks_ to work up to _kissing_ you.”

 

“I could sleep in my room again—”

 

“We both know neither of us would actually sleep—”

 

“Or I could sleep out here on the couch—”

 

“ _Or_ , conversely, you could sleep alongside me and I could continue being a perfect gentleman,” he told her.

 

Granger had a smile on her face as she led him into his bedroom. She looked at his bed, holding his one hand in both of hers behind her back. His room was warm, cozy. He wondered if it was too romantic. Should he cut the fire down? Should he grab a separate blanket?

 

She pulled her baggy jumper up and over her head, a pretty blush rising on her cheeks as she folded it and placed it on his chair, clad now in one of those strange t-shirts she always wore. He raised a playful eyebrow at her and pulled his old Quidditch jersey up and over his head, exposing his bare abdomen. Her eyes grew wide and he laughed lightly. “It’s okay to _look_ , Granger. It’s not like you haven’t seen me without a shirt before.”

 

He climbed into bed and lifted the covers for her. “Get in the bed, witch.”

 

She gave him a mock glare and slid in next to him. Before Draco could overanalyze anything, he slid an arm under her shoulders and gave her a gentle nudge, indicating he wanted her to cuddle into him. She turned on her side and placed her head where his shoulder swept into his chest. Their positioning was far more intimate than it ever had been, but it just felt so right. Granger cuddled into him, her mass of curls tickling his bare flesh, her warm cheek pressed into him.

 

Her gentle fingers trickled over his diagonal scars—remnants of the Sectumsempra Potter had sent his way. Then she moved to the other scars that marred his body, touching and caressing lightly. “I wish I could have been there to stop these.”

 

“I had it coming,” he said quietly.

 

“Draco, everything that happens to you in life isn’t your fault. Some of these were of Voldemort and the Death Eaters’ doing.”

 

He tightened his grip on her shoulders a little at her reassurance. “Hermione Granger. Ever the optimist.”

 

She turned her face and kissed the closest scar lightly. “You’re not as horrible a person as you think.”

 

Draco ran his fingertips lightly over her arm. She told him so often that he wasn’t a bad person—he wondered when he would begin to believe her. “I want to reach out to Katie Bell.”

 

Granger lifted her head and looked down at him. She had a slight smile gracing her features and she brushed his hair away from his face. “Do you want my help?” she asked him.

 

Draco closed his eyes at her touch and nodded. “I don’t think I could go through that alone again,” he told her.

 

Going to see Madam Rosmerta nearly unraveled him. The doubt, the fear, the anger, the trepidation in her face was forever etched into his memory. “And, after her…Weasley.”

 

He hated admitting that he had anything to apologize to Weasley for. Draco had hated that redheaded moron since day one, and that hatred only multiplied when he’d publicly humiliated not only him, but Granger as well, on her birthday. But even still, Draco knew that he had royally fucked up and nearly killed him in sixth year—and in order to move forward, Draco wanted to right every wrong he’d committed since taking the Mark.

 

His eyes were still closed, but Granger leaned down and planted a pleased kiss on his lips. Draco hadn’t even thought of how she would take his wanting to speak with Weasley, but he realized then that he had said absolutely the right thing. Where had his Slytherin cunning gotten off to? He would have said this to her weeks ago—if he had known it would land her lips on his.

 

o-o-o

 

Hermione woke in the middle of the night with a start. She’d been dreaming of her parents again, but this time, it certainly didn’t qualify as a nightmare. They’d been camping and she was making eggs over the campfire with her father. It felt more like a memory than a dream as she blinked into the night.

 

She was on her side facing out into Draco’s room. And he was curled into her back, his arm draped over her waist and holding her steadfastly to himself. She could feel his slow, slumbered breaths against her neck. His hand was firm against her stomach and she lifted her own to cover it. He stirred slightly and she felt him plant a sweet kiss between her shoulder blades as he pulled her closer, his face buried into her back. “’Min…” came his soft mumble.

 

Hermione smiled to herself. Her beautiful fallen angel; so warm, so comforting, so loving. _Hers._ His magic mixed and mingled with hers, gentle rippling waves between them. She thought about the last month of their lives. She had known he was the one for her since her first vision, and it broke her heart to think that he truly didn’t think he was deserving of her. He had denied himself her friendship, her companionship, her love for so long. She didn’t know how, but she was going to convince this incredible wizard that he was every bit deserving of her love. She became determined to pull him from the darkness—she just wanted the lighthearted, carefree Draco she’d interacted with in the vineyard to become a permanent fixture. And like that, Operation Milk and Honey became less about wooing him—he was clearly interested—and more about reassuring him of who he truly was.

 

o-o-o

 

“I cannot believe I allowed Theo to talk me into coming to this,” Draco lamented as they sat down in the Gryffindor bleachers.

 

“I think it’ll be good for you to get out,” she told him, moving to sit next to Neville.

 

The Gryffindor smiled brightly at her and his smiled only faltered slightly when he caught sight of Draco. “Malfoy.”

 

“Neville,” Draco replied and the boy raised an eyebrow at his use of his given name.

 

“Are you going to come out with us on Saturday?” Neville asked as the Slytherin team walked out to the Quidditch pitch.

 

Draco’s eyes widened and he looked at Hermione. “It’s Luna’s birthday…we were going to go dress shopping for the masquerade ball and then meet up with Neville for some drinks.”

 

“I thought you weren’t going to the ball?” Draco asked.

 

“ _We’re_ not,” she said, gesturing between them, “but they are. Why don’t you go with Neville ahead of time? We’ll all meet up after.”

 

Draco looked at the Gryffindor man and Hermione bit her lip. Why the hell would Draco want to get to know her friends? “Sure. I needed to pick up some Potions supplies anyway. I’m sure you’re well acquainted with Madam Laramey’s? Being as astute with Herbology as you are.”

 

“Of course. I’ve actually been growing her supply of Biting Calendulas—the soil here on Hogwarts’ grounds has the perfect alkalization for them to flourish!” Neville replied excitedly.

 

“Really?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow, clearly impressed that Neville would be supplying Wizarding England’s largest purveyor of potions ingredients with anything.

 

“Absolutely. I could bring you round the greenhouse next time the Slytherins have Herbology with the Gryffindors,” Neville offered.

 

“I’d like that! I actually need some calendula pollen for a tincture I’m making, so it’ll be nice to see where it’s actually coming from. I’m assuming you’ve been using monarch butterflies exclusively to pollinate?” Draco questioned, and Hermione saw a twinkle of a challenge in his eye.

 

Neville snorted a small laugh, mildly arrogant. _“Swallowtail_ butterflies. The powder from their wings increases the potency of the pollen three-fold.”

 

“So it does,” Draco conceded as the Gryffindor team walked out onto the pitch and the students surrounding them all stood and cheered.

 

Hermione looked at him, her jaw hanging open after watching his interaction with Neville. He gave her a wink and a small smirk, and she knew in that instance that Draco was trying to make the effort to befriend her friends, simply because he thought it would be important to her. She leaned over and kissed his cheek as he smiled and stared straight ahead. Her heart was so full of gratitude toward him—for every gesture he made, just for her. Hiring the Healers to assist with her parents, wanting to make amends with Ron, trying to befriend Neville. He was trying to redeem himself to her, to show her that he was worthy.

 

“So,” Neville asked slowly when everyone took their seats once more, “are you two _together_?”

 

Hermione looked at Draco, waiting to gauge his reaction. He put his arm around her waist and pulled her toward himself, placing a kiss on her temple. “Until she gets sick of my arrogance and generally ill demeanor.”

 

A few Gryffindors around them were watching their display and Draco raised his chin haughtily—no one else would see it, but Hermione saw a little hurt there. Giving the closest girl a pointed look, Hermione leaned over and rested her head on Draco’s shoulder, lacing her fingers with his. He kissed the top of her head.

 

“Can you believe that she’s falling for his games?” she heard from behind them.

 

“I think it’s sweet—overcoming adversity for love—”

 

“He doesn’t love her, he’s _using_ her—”

 

Hermione made to stand, to give her fellow students a piece of her mind. Draco held onto her hand with a death grip. “Ignore them.”

 

“They’re being arseholes.”

 

“It’s okay, love. If you don’t believe them, I don’t care,” he whispered back. “Stop trying to fight all the time.”

 

Hermione looked at his pleading face and took a deep breath. It was not like her to back down from telling an idiot off, but she remained seated. “We can go if you want.”

 

“I told you from the start…I’m no good for you because this is how it will always be. But you want to be with me, so we will face it head on. Ignore them and let’s watch the game.”

 

Fifteen minutes prior, he’d been lamenting his decision to show his face at the game. But now? He had a stubborn determination written all over the set of his jaw. He reminded her so of herself in that moment.

 

The game was just as dreadfully dull as she’d remembered them to be. Draco tried to point out different techniques of the players, tried to explain what was going on. After a while, he stood and stretched. “Loo,” was all he said and he left.

 

“He seems…nicer,” Neville remarked, watching the players flying around.

 

“He is. Or…I think he’s always been like this. We just never knew, Nev,” she told him.

 

“He’s…” Neville seemed to struggle for the words. “Sad.”

 

Hermione nodded once again. “He is. His life has been difficult, Neville. He never wanted that life.”

 

Neville nodded, staring off into space. “Yeah…yeah, I know.”

 

What happened next seemed to happen in slow motion. The Slytherin Keeper did some kind of a swirl in front of the rings and when he righted himself a steady stream of fluid fell beneath him. Others began laughing and Hermione raised an eyebrow—this was certainly the first time she’d ever seen someone urinate on themselves mid-flight. The Keeper seemed mortified and Ginny saw that as the opportunity to fly at the rings to score. Two Bludgers flew at her and each one was hit by a different Beater. She scored. One Bludger flew and hit the Slytherin Seeker’s broom and cracked it into splinters. The Seeker fell from the sky quickly, before any of the teachers realized what happened, slamming into the ground. The other Bludger came whirling straight for Hermione’s face. She had horrible reflexes when things were slower. But this was hurling toward her.

 

 _“Nooo!”_ she heard a shriek from her right and the Bludger stopped in mid-air and exploded with a powerful outburst of magic.

 

She fell backward from the sheer force, hitting her head on the bench behind her. _  
“Move! Get out of my way!”_ she heard Draco’s voice.

 

“Granger! _Granger!_ ” he was shrieking and then he and Professor McGonagall were at her side.

 

“Are you okay, Miss Granger?” the Headmistress asked, her tone worried.

 

Hermione tried to sit up but Draco eased her back down. “Don’t sit up, you could be hurt.”

 

She swatted him away. “I’m fine. More surprised, that's all. What the hell happened?”

 

He gave her a grumpy look as she sat up anyway. “The Bludger was headed straight for you, so I stopped it. A little more forcefully than I had intended, but I was fearful.”

 

She looked toward the field, where the Seeker was being levitated away, the Keeper running toward the bleachers, the Gryffindors arguing about the game being postponed. Theo, the Slytherin Chaser, was levitating on his broom, close to where they sat near the wall and he looked in their direction. He gave Hermione a subtle nod and wink.

 

Draco narrowed his eyes at the dark-haired wizard. “Why is Theodore winking at you?”

 

Hermione shrugged. “I haven’t the slightest clue…maybe it was directed toward you?”

 

Draco looked between the two. Hermione knew exactly what he meant. The Keeper and Seeker were two of the five. He had humiliated one and injured the other. “Draco, did you see what exactly happened?” she asked, worried that he could somehow be blamed.

 

He shook his head. “No, I was speaking with Professor McGonagall and my back was turned. I didn’t see anything until I heard the laughter from all around, then I saw the Gryffindors hit the Bludgers…except…” he looked up at Professor McGonagall.

 

“Except what, Mr. Malfoy?” she asked.

 

Hermione knew what Draco wanted to say—the Bludgers moved of their own accord, not on the path they’d been struck into—but was thankful he lied. “I didn’t mean to stop the Bludger quite as forcefully, Professor.”  
  


The Headmistress nodded. “Why don’t you take Miss Granger to the hospital wing?”

 

“I don’t need to go—”

 

“You’re going,” both Draco and McGonagall said.

 

Hermione allowed Draco to escort her out, nodding as her fellow Gryffindors showed concern for her. When they were alone in the corridors, she rubbed the back of her head, feeling a knot. Draco stopped her and threaded his fingers carefully into her hair and gingerly touched the sore spot. She winced and he looked anguished. “I really didn’t mean for you to be knocked backward. I was just so scared, Hermione. A Bludger going that fast to the head could kill you.”

 

He kissed her forehead and removed his fingers from her head. “You aren’t bleeding, but we should see Madam Pomfrey to get you some headache potions. I’m so sorry.”

 

“I like when you say that,” she told him.

 

“What? ‘I’m sorry’?” he asked, his brow wrinkling.

 

She shook her head. “My name. You always call me ‘Granger’ or ‘Miss Minnie’ with the children. And the other night…you said ‘’Min’ in your sleep…”

 

Draco’s eyes grew wide and his cheeks flushed lightly. “I just like ‘Granger.’ It’s more like a term of endearment at this point. And…’Minnie’…it’s easy for the kids to say…and you’re petite and…mini…and I refuse to call you ‘my-knee.’ I mean, I do like ‘Hermione’ as well…because you’re absolutely like a Greek goddess…I mean…Shit…I’m rambling now…”

 

Hermione smiled. “You’re cute when you get all flustered.”

 

He rolled his eyes, but a smile played at his lips. “Well, if you didn’t make me so bloody nervous, I wouldn’t get so flustered!”

 

o-o-o

 

 

 

 

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18:

 

Draco and Hermione made their way to his room Tuesday evening, after having studied together in the library. It was late—they’d been asked to leave by Madam Pince—but neither cared. They simply enjoyed each other’s company that much and hours slipped by with them paying little mind.

 

When they rounded the corner to the armory hall, Theodore Nott was leaning against the wall by Draco’s door, his ankles crossed as he examined his nails lazily. He looked up when he heard their steps and a wide grin spread across his face. “Turning in for the night, eh? _Together?_ ”

 

Draco rolled his eyes as he opened the door. “What do you want, Nott?”

 

Hermione led them into the room and the two Slytherins followed. “I was actually looking to speak to Granger. _Alone_.”

 

The blond narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms, stepping in front of the witch protectively. “What would you have to speak with Granger about that I cannot hear?”

 

Theo looked around Draco to where Granger stood. He gave her an exasperated, “are you going to help me?” look and she shrugged. “I think he can hear what I know you’re going to say,” she told him.

 

“I’m a big boy. I can even tie my own shoes, too,” Draco quipped, his look turning petulant.

 

Theo crossed his arms as well and sat on the edge of the desk. “Fine. As you may have noticed, two of Slytherin’s Quidditch players experienced a rather… _unfortunate_ series of events at the last game.”

 

Draco turned to unobscure Granger’s view and looked between the two as she nodded. Theo continued. “That’s two of the five—”

 

“Son of a bitch. Nott, I knew you were up to something,” Draco said angrily, slamming his palm down on the desk by the burly wizard.

 

He looked in Granger’s direction. “So, he was winking at you!”

 

She had the courtesy to look guilty. “I suspected that was the message you were trying to convey.”

 

“I know of two more. I’m having a little trouble getting the fifth name. It would be mighty helpful if you would tell me, Malfoy,” Theo mentioned.

 

“I don’t want you seeking retribution on my behalf, Nott. I appreciate the gesture, but this is risky and I could go to prison.”

 

“How?” Theo demanded. “I made it look like an accident. Even involved your witch to ensure you wouldn’t be blamed.”

 

 _“The Bludger was you?”_ Draco nearly screamed. “You could have killed her!”

 

Theo rolled his eyes, bored. “Thank you for the theatrics, Malfoy. But do you really think I would have let it hit her? No. I had my eye on it, ready to change its course had you not come along. But thank you for the vote of confidence.”

 

Draco ground his teeth until his jaw hurt, still seething, but soaking in what Theo was saying. He knew his friend would never have let any harm come to Granger, even long before the term had started and the two had become nearly inseparable. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, coming to lean against the table next to his oldest friend. Granger looked between the two, apprehensive and clearly expecting an argument.

 

“So that’s it?” she questioned.

 

“Did you want me to beat his arse for you?” Draco offered, gesturing to the clearly bulkier wizard. “He’s capable and efficient. I believe he never would have hurt you…it just took a moment to realize whom I was dealing with.”

 

“Well perhaps if he would stop acting like you two hardly know each other,” Granger sniffed, crossing her arms.

 

Theo looked at Draco and then wrapped his arm around his neck and pulled his temple to his lips. The blond laughed and pulled away. “Better?” Theo asked.

 

“Much,” she replied, clearly still put out by Theo’s long absence in Draco’s life.

 

“Listen, Granger,” Draco began and he held out a hand to her.

 

She took it and stepped in between Draco’s knees. “If you’re just going to make excuses for him, save it.”

 

“Ouch, Hermione,” Nott said, putting a hand over his heart.

 

Draco grinned as the ease of his longtime friendship settled his anger and nerves. “I really do appreciate what you and Theo are doing. But you don’t have to. I took my beating and now I’m moving forward.”

 

“Save it, Malfoy,” Granger told him. “If Theo doesn’t handle the other three, I will.”

 

Draco groaned and dropped his forehead to Granger’s shoulder and put his hands on both of her hips. “Do you always have to be so stubborn?”

 

“Do you mean protective? Feisty? Willing to turn your entire House into Hogwarts’ very own cattle ranch?” she asked, running her fingers through his silky hair.

 

Theo let out a laugh. “I’m going to handle it. I just have to play my cards right. You know I’d go to Azkaban for you, mate, if it came down to it. But that doesn’t mean I fancy the idea much,” he said, clapping Draco on the back.

 

“What am I going to do with the two of you?” he asked, his voice muffled by Granger’s shoulder.

 

“Hey, mate. I love you to death, but keep me out of your little sex games. I’d accept a bottle of your father’s finest bourbon, however,” Nott replied cheekily, causing Granger to blush and Draco to punch his friend’s arm.

 

“Men,” Granger grumbled, wrapping her arms around Draco. “You can see yourself out, Theo.”

 

o-o-o

 

Saturday rolled around and Hermione found herself in a dress shop with Luna and Ginny. “Where is Malfoy taking you?” Ginny asked her, trying on a pale lilac silk dress.

 

Hermione was sitting on an ottoman, watching as her two friends came out and showed off their dresses. “I have no idea. He hasn’t said where. Only that it was somewhere he used to go and celebrate Samhain with his mother as a child.”

 

“Samhain? That’s such an ancient practice—I’m not surprised that a pure-blooded family like the Malfoys celebrate it, instead of Halloween,” Luna mentioned, also stepping out in a dress made of giant sparkling taffeta roses.

 

“I only know a little of what I read of it as a muggle child,” Hermione shrugged.

 

“Are you sure you don’t want to come to the ball?” Ginny asked, skeptical of her friend’s desire to miss the biggest dance since the Yule Ball.

 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I am so positive. Not to mention, it would make Draco uncomfortable.”

 

“You’re really dating him, then?” Ginny questioned, stepping out in her second dress of burnt orange.

 

“Yes,” Hermione replied shortly.

 

Luna stepped out in a short dress—bright pink and green neon with tiger print—and smiled airily. “He _is_ rather handsome. And I’ve seen his potential—he really is kind-hearted.”

 

“You’ve seen his potential? What does that mean?” Ginny asked, raising one eyebrow.

 

“Luna saw him in a vision of the future, too. It matched one of mine,” Hermione explained.

 

“They’re going to get married in a vineyard. How curious!” Luna said brightly, twirling in her dress.

 

“That dress looks phenomenal on you,” Ginny told her, lifting a black one from a nearby rack.

 

“He took me with him to that vineyard,” Hermione mentioned.

 

The two witches looked at her and Ginny’s eyes nearly boggled out of her head. “Were you going to tell us?”

 

Hermione shrugged. “I haven’t really talked to you much.”

 

“Where is the vineyard, Hermione?” Luna asked politely.

 

“Burgundy, France. It’s his parents’ wine-production. They own a beautiful French villa sitting on a huge parcel of land. It’s definitely the same vineyard—Draco even confirmed it.”

 

“You’ve told him about the visions already?” Ginny shrieked, forgetting the dresses altogether.

 

Hermione nodded. “How did he take it?” Luna inquired.

 

“He’s…accepting. I can’t explain it, but…it’s almost like we’ve always known. Like we were always going to end up like this and we just never acknowledged it aloud. But now that it’s out there, it’s just…” Hermione shrugged again, trying to come up with a word.

 

“Incredible?” Luna supplied.

 

“Delicious?” Ginny said, her grin devilish.

 

Hermione smiled as well. “Both.”

 

“So, you’ve kissed him? What was that like? Where and when was your first kiss?” Ginny asked, now watching Hermione’s face intently.

 

“It was in my room…he was trying to get a book from me and one thing led to another and then he was kissing me. It was…intense,” Hermione finished.

 

“I _knew_ those beds were big enough for two!” Ginny nearly squealed.

 

“We haven’t done anything but sleep, Gin.”

 

“He sleeps in there?” she asked and Luna smiled.

 

“Of course he does—their magical cores are powerfully compatible,” the blonde answered.

 

“What do you mean, Luna?” Hermione asked, her heart beginning to thrum.

 

“You can feel him when he’s around, can’t you?” she asked knowingly.

 

Hermione nodded and Ginny looked between the two incredulously. “I’ve seen it. Little ripples of energy between you…like a heatwave above the ground in summer,” Luna stated.

 

“You can _see_ it?” Hermione asked.

 

Luna nodded. “It’s really quite pretty. Different colors depending on the energy between you. Lately, it’s been red. But I’ve seen blue and yellow.”

 

“What does it mean, Luna?” Ginny asked, standing and slipping off her gown in the dressing room.

 

“He’s good for her. They’re good for each other,” Luna told them, smiling widely.

 

Hermione thought about what she said. She didn’t know why she’d ever discounted Luna—the girl knew what she was talking about. “What can I do to see it, too?”

 

“Concentrate. And believe,” Luna shrugged.

 

Hermione stored this away in her memory for later to discuss with Draco. “Should we go to meet the men?” Ginny asked, the black dress over her arm.

 

Ginny and Luna paid and the three headed down the street to meet Neville and Draco. They were already seated in the back corner of the Three Broomsticks, away from prying eyes. The two were looking into a glass jar between them, Neville talking animatedly.

 

“How was the potions supply store?” Hermione asked, coming up behind the blond and placing a hand on his shoulder.

 

Draco looked up at her and put a hand over hers. “Neville is bloody brilliant! He knows so many of the old folk remedies and we’re going to get together and I’m going to put my own little spin on a few things!”

 

Ginny raised an eyebrow. “Draco wants to run an apothecary,” Hermione explained.

 

“An…apothecary?” Ginny asked, looking at the blond man.

 

Draco laughed lightly at her perturbed look. “Your shocked look wounds me,” he mentioned.

 

“I’m sorry. It’s just…I don’t know.”

 

“Strange that I want to help people?” Draco offered with a shrug.

 

Ginny laughed and Draco gestured to the empty chairs at the table. “Ladies. Have a seat. I’ll get us a round of drinks!”

 

“Some of your family’s wine?” Luna asked dreamily.

 

Draco looked at Hermione and then smiled. “Sure.”

 

“Merlin’s beard, ‘Mione!” Ginny said, leaning into the brunette.

 

“What?” she questioned.

 

“When did Draco Malfoy become such a _dish_? He’s piping hot! And… _polite_ ,” she replied, grabbing Hermione’s arm.

 

A smile fought to spread across the bright witch’s face. “He is pretty incredible. Gin…we were so wrong about him. Our childhoods…we were all ruined by prejudices and assumptions. But I feel like, under his careful façade, he’s _always_ been in there!”

 

“He _has_ been genuinely interested in everything I’ve talked about today. Most people don’t care to speak about herbs and plants. But he’s rather smart and knows so much random information! He could keep up conversations about incredibly rare plants and their uses. With his potions skills, his apothecary is going to be one of a kind and incredible,” Neville told the table.

 

“The problem I’m having is getting others to see this,” Hermione lamented, eyeing his stark white blond hair and all black attire as he spoke to Madam Rosmerta.

 

“Fuck everyone,” Ginny stated, while Luna said, “I’ve seen it—he’s going to apologize to people and tell his story and people will forgive him.”

 

“What do you mean, Luna? How?” Hermione asked under her breath.

 

“I don’t know. But I was scrying in the lake’s surface and I saw people discussing how he’d spoken of his past and answered questions truthfully and apologized,” the Ravenclaw said and everyone leaned back as Draco began making his way closer to the table.

 

“For the birthday girl, a couple of bottles of my family’s finest wine,” he said, presenting one bottle to her and passing already filled glasses around the table.

 

Hermione looked at him, trying to formulate a plan to make Luna’s visions come true. She watched his interactions with each individual that night. With Ginny, he was snarky and took her jabs and responded with some of his own—more good natured than genuinely brutish. With Luna, he listened to her strange musings on creatures he was certain did not exist. But he knew that she was quite capable when it came to Divination and could probably answer his question about Hermione one day. So, he politely listened and asked questions as though he were interested in Luna’s every airy whim. Neville even seemed at ease after their day together, and he spoke of various topics he knew Draco enjoyed and could provide detailed conversations with regards to—Potions, potion making ingredients and herbs, tinctures and salves. It was a surreally strange moment for Hermione to watch her friends interact with the lonely man she’d become so focused on, cared so deeply for. She hoped his future interactions with Ron would be similar, but she had her doubts.

 

o-o-o

 

“We need to do this, darling. It’s the most important step,” Draco said, holding the packet of parchment Healer Holcomb had given them.

 

Hermione was sitting on her bed, her hands wringing her jumper hem nervously as she stared at the information. “What if he can’t bring them back, either?” she voiced quietly.

 

So many scenarios ran through her mind: her parents unable to return to her, her parents’ memories being further ruined, her parents going mentally insane because of the mental toying. Draco was sitting next to her and he moved to push her hair over her shoulder and he ran one finger over her ear as he tucked the hair behind her ear. “Then at least you can say you’ve tried every avenue. I have great faith in Healer Holcomb and his team.”

 

Hermione wanted to believe in the good Healers, too. They did this every day of their lives and had specialized training in memory charms. “And if their minds are ruined further?”

 

Draco put his arm around her waist and his head on her shoulder. “Everything will be okay, Hermione. Have faith.”

 

 _Have faith._ Hermione hadn’t heard that phrase since she’d attended church as a muggle child. _Faith_. She needed to place her trust in someone she didn’t know to accomplish something she was unsure of because someone she cared for deeply believed. It was quite overwhelming, and she wiped at tears that splashed on her cheeks. She took the packet of parchment from him.

 

Per the instructions, she needed to include any photos she may have had. Before she’d tampered with their memories, she’d made herself a box of photographs that she’d shrunk and carried at all times in her beaded bag. Hermione went to retrieve the box and stood with her back to Draco as she gingerly touched the box—not much more than a shoebox but containing her entire childhood. She was going to let Draco into a huge part of her life and she was placing more trust in him than she ever had Harry or even Ron. She took a deep breath and made her way back to him.

 

Draco was looking at her, worried concern etched into his face. Hermione climbed on her bed and sat cross-legged. She patted the space between them and he turned to mirror her stance, crossing his long legs and leaning forward on his thighs as he touched the top of the box. He raised an eyebrow at her, questioning, and she nodded. He pulled the top off and peered inside as Hermione kept her eyes closed tight, giving herself a moment.

 

“Our babies are going to be gorgeous, Granger,” he remarked after a moment and Hermione let out a long exhale.

 

“Why do you say that?” she asked him, opening her eyes.

 

He showed her the photo he was staring at so intently. “You were a right pretty baby,” he responded. “It’s so strange that these don’t move at all.”

 

They moved through the photos, one by one. Draco laughed at one here or there and Hermione would launch into explanations of each one. He watched her speak so animatedly, as though there was nothing else in the world he’d rather listen to than her droning on about her life. Eventually, the still photos began to move and child Hermione transformed into teenaged Hermione. Ron and Harry began to make regular appearances in photos.

 

Draco stared at a photograph of Hermione from the Yule Ball and gave a small smile. “You were positively radiant that night. Even then, I couldn’t think of a single insult—you were easily the most beautiful witch in attendance that night.”

 

Hermione snorted and rolled her eyes. “Please. The Beauxbatons girls were there.”

 

“I stand by my statement,” he replied with a shrug, turning to the next photo.

 

It was one of Hermione and Ron alone at the end of the dock that ran alongside the Burrow. Ron’s arm was around her shoulder and he was grinning widely at the camera as Hermione smiled equally as fervently up at him. Draco seemed to stiffen slightly at the intimate and natural way the two looked. “You look…good together,” he mentioned and Hermione heard the apprehension in his voice.

 

“Don’t,” she told him, putting her hand over his.

 

“What?”

 

“That. Try to talk yourself out of this…what we have. Ron was not the right wizard for me. I love him deeply and I believe I always will. But that love is platonic and brotherly. If I wanted him, I could easily have him. But I don’t,” she told him.

 

He sighed and turned the photo over on the pile. They finished the stack of photos and Hermione stood to retrieve her camera. She handed it to Draco. “Could you take one of me now? So they know what I look like all grown up.”

 

Draco took the camera as Hermione stood bashfully, clasping her hands and smiling toward him. He snapped a photo and then retrieved it as it slid from the bottom. His lips parted slightly as his eyebrows went up toward his hairline. “What? Is it hideous?” she asked, noting his faint blush.

 

He closed his mouth and swallowed hard and shook his head subtly. “You’re so beautiful,” he said, his voice strained and little more than a whisper.

 

Hermione’s brow wrinkled and she looked at the photo. She looked average. Nothing spectacular. But Draco waved it slightly in his hand. “May I make a copy of this one?”

 

“Why?” she asked.

 

He looked at her for a moment, biting the inside of his cheek. As though it was the most uncertain thing he’d ever done, he reached into the back pocket of his trademark black trousers. Hermione watched as he pulled a small purple object from his pocket and he held it up. Her Chocolate Frog card. It was the purple thing she’d been catching glimpses of since their first week back. Long before they became close. “You carry my card around?” she asked incredulously.

 

Draco looked at it, a fond twinkle shining in his eye. “It’s a little ray of light in the otherwise dark sea of negativity I navigate on a daily basis.”

 

“I’ve caught glimpses of this here and there…I just never knew what the purple paper _was_.”

 

“Remember on the train back? Theo asked you about it and you refused to eat the Frog because you thought the card might be in there. Well…it was. I ate the Frog and saved the card…something I could look at when times were rough.”

 

Draco was essentially admitting that his feelings for her had gone back to before their returning “eighth year.” He looked ashamed and nervous as to her reaction as he cleared his throat and pocketed the card. “May I duplicate this one? You look positively stunning.”

 

Hermione nodded numbly and tapped her wand against it, creating a second copy. Draco smiled down at it and pocketed it. “We should probably duplicate all of these to give to the Healers. Why don’t we take these assignments a little at a time. We’ll start on memories tomorrow.”

 

Hermione looked at him, her heart thrumming, nearly bursting at the seams as she stared at the gorgeous man who had taken it upon himself to begin the tedious work of duplicating over a hundred photographs. He was so _giving_ and _loving_. How could anyone think he was nothing but an evil Death Eater?

 

o-o-o

 


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19:

 

Halloween rolled around with a crisp chill in the air. The trees were vibrant shades of scarlet and tangerine, like Hogwarts’ grounds were alight with fire. Draco hadn’t told Hermione much about where they were going, but he seemed to carry an air of importance in his secrecy. His only instructions for her were to dress warmly and bring a trinket of some kind that signified what she wanted most for the next year. Hermione brought a framed photo of herself with her parents in Cairo when she was younger.

 

She met Draco at six, when the others were all on their way to the Great Hall for the All Hallows’ Eve Masquerade. He had gotten special permission from the Headmistress to leave the grounds for the night—how, Hermione did not know. They rode the carriage to Hogsmeade and when they stepped into the village, she had a surge of excitement. “When will you tell me where we’re going?” she asked, marveling at the carved gourds in the storefront windows.

 

There were groups of people making merry with one another, laughing and carrying on. Draco pulled her into the alley and took her hands. “We’re going a few kilometers west of the Manor. I promise, you will not be able to see it from where we are and I will not take you anywhere near it. Do you trust me?”

 

Hermione worried her bottom lip between her teeth. She was grateful that he told her, but it brought along an anxiety she didn’t enjoy much. He seemed to sense her discomfort and he leaned forward and cupped her face gently. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you…ever again,” he promised, brushing his lips against hers reassuringly.

 

His kiss was soft, sweet and told Hermione more than she could comprehend at the moment. She pushed back to him, gently moving her lips in a careful rhythm with his. He pulled away and ran his hands down along her arms and took her hands. “Trust me. I think you’ll enjoy this…I immediately thought of you.”

 

Hermione looked up into his earnest eyes, his small smile. She nodded, trying to stymy the anxiety she felt at knowing they would be near the place where she’d been tortured. Draco squeezed both of her hands in his and she closed her eyes, preparing for Apparation. There was a moment when she felt nothing, and Draco leaned forward once more and kissed the tip of her nose before they were sucked to their next destination.

 

When she opened her eyes, she could see the outline of Stonehenge straight ahead in the moonlight. They were standing on a slight slope and Draco dropped one hand so he could pull her forward. “Did you bring your trinket?” he asked, looking down at her as they made their way forward in the dark.

 

She nodded, looking around them curiously. She felt a strong surge of magic running under her feet as they carried her forth, enveloping them in the air almost palpably. “Samhain is the single most powerful day of the year—in so many ways. My mother is…traditional and ancient in her beliefs. When I was a child, she would bring me here to dance in the moonlight, play with minor Divination techniques and offer thanks to the powers that be.”

 

Hermione nodded, the couple following Draco’s lit wand until they were adjacent to the structure. “Muggles will be coming soon,” he commented as he pointed his wand at the ground and a hole was blasted at their feet.

 

“Muggles?”

 

“There are some that are…more in tune with that which is natural. They come here to celebrate in much the same way we will,” he said, waving his wand again and a stack of kindling built up in the pit.

 

He lit a fire and it grew wide before them, a proper bonfire to warm them and provide light. Hermione looked around a little more easily in by the light of the fire. The structure was massive and impressive. She’d seen photos, but had never bothered to visit—what was ancient, questionable magic when she had real, tangible magic? He went within the circle of stones and disappeared. Hermione looked around herself once more, the large harvest moon working in tandem with the fire. She stepped within the circle, but Draco was nowhere to be found.

 

She looked around—she hadn’t heard him Apparate. She peered into the darkness at the far end of the circle and saw nothing. No flash of white blond hair, no stirring in the shadows.

 

“It’s not funny, Draco. Show yourself,” she said, walking around stones in turn.

 

She walked in circles, seemingly driving herself mad as she strained for a sound, a crunch of leaves or swoosh of grass beneath his feet. Hermione strained, trying to feel his magic call to hers. But in a place so saturated, she couldn’t distinguish his magic from that of the ancient ruins. A panic began to settle within her, irrationally. Had he been captured? But how? It had only been a couple of minutes and she’d heard nothing.

 

Suddenly, there was a warm breath against her ear. “Boo.”

 

She flipped around and swatted the air where the whisper had come from, making contact with a disillusioned Draco. He laughed deeply and ebulliently, each laugh creating an intoxicating symphony to Hermione’s ears. She swatted him twice more as he made himself visible, the glee on his face making him more handsome than she’d ever seen. “You. Arsehole!” she said, punctuating each word with a smack to his firm chest.

 

He hummed deep in his throat. “I scared you, Miss Brave Gryffindor,” he purred in her ear as he gingerly touched her hips, his smile still agitatingly wide.

 

His mood was light, as it always was when they got away from the oppressive castle. Flirty. And as he began to suckle on her neck, the only adjective she could think to describe him was _sexy_. Hermione was powerless against his charm, his carefree demeanor. He was wearing his signature black, so stark in the firelight against the warm, orange glow of his skin and hair. His hand was pressed into her waist, a finger on his other hand twirling one of her curls as he placed feather light kisses up her neck, over her jaw and to her lips.

 

She let out a contented moan at the back of her throat and Draco pulled away, giving her a sly smirk. “Come on. Let’s go sit by the fire.”

 

He led her back to sit right alongside the fire. “I don’t know what you know of Samhain,” he mentioned. “But as I said before it is the most powerful night of the entire year. One reason will appeal greatly to your… _abilities._ This night, of all three hundred and sixty-five of the year, is the single most… _clear_ night for Divining.”

 

Hermione furrowed her brow. “What do you mean?”

 

“There is so much potential in the universe tonight. Magic thumping all around us, like the earth’s heartbeat. Do you feel it?” he asked, taking her hand in his own.

 

She nodded, smiling at his poetic interpretation. “The ley lines that run beneath Stonehenge, the thinning of the veil, the energy that the spirits will bring when they appear. It’s powerful. If ever there was a night to scry, it’s tonight. You’ll see anything you ask for.”

 

“I don’t have a surface anymore,” she said, wondering absently if she could stare into the dark void beyond Stonehenge.

 

Draco smiled and pulled an item from his pocket. He tapped his wand against it and it enlarged and he handed it to her, pulling the tissue paper away. It was an incredibly ornate scrying mirror. It had a smooth obsidian surface, just as her original had. But the surrounding frame was hand-alchemized metal—perhaps bronze, with an incredibly intricate ‘H’ pressed into the handle, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Peonies and snakes wove their way around the obsidian surface and the metal had a mimicked patina to it, light green swirling into the bronze color. It was even more beautiful than her first. “I thought you might like to have one, and I didn’t care for any in Hogsmeade, so I made this one.”

 

Hermione looked at him, impressed with his display of magic and talent, touched by the fact that he’d made something he thought she might cherish. “It’s beautiful.”

 

“Well, a Seer should have the proper tools at her discretion. Beginning with a known strength,” he said, waving his wand and the paper disappeared completely as she turned it over in her hands.

 

“Do you want to give it a go?” she asked him, marveling at his pleased look in the firelight.

 

“Absolutely,” he told her.

 

He took one of her hands and the two placed their fingers hovering over the surface. Hermione focused on the fire’s reflection playing on the smooth obsidian from over her shoulder. Draco was quiet as well, and she suspected he was holding his breath. “What do you want to see?”

 

“Do we have to say it aloud?” he asked wearily.

 

She shook her head. “No. I don’t think so, as long as you put the intention out into the air.”

 

“Well…you decide then,” he said.

 

Hermione took a deep breath and tried to center herself as his eyes stared intensely as well. The two could hear their breathing fall in sync. Hermione’s intention, without speaking aloud, was, “ _Show **us**.” _ Draco, simultaneously thought, _“Let us **See**.”_

 

The two intentions were phrased differently, but the meanings behind them both worked alongside one another and a scene flickered across the black surface. Draco lowered his hand and the two touched the mirror with a single fingertip each.

 

_They were in the Great Hall, with Umbridge standing at the Professors’ table, speaking in the slow, sickening cadence she always had. She was spouting off that Educational Decree Number Twenty-Six was in full effect: males and females were not to be within six inches of each other. The pair watched as their vision selves looked at one another from across the room, their eyes connecting for a fraction of a second._

_…_

_The scene shifted and they were at King’s Cross Station. The Malfoys were escorting Draco to Platform Nine and Three Quarters, his mother doting over him with a practiced calm as he swatted her hand away from his head. The trip passed a much bushier, more enthusiastic Hermione, standing with her parents. “I will be fine, mum. I’m going to be with people who are like me!”_

_The real Hermione felt a tightness in her chest at seeing her parents, and the certainty in her voice as she told them that she was going somewhere she belonged. Draco squeezed her hand._

_…_

_They were standing outside of the castle. Vision Hermione marched right toward Draco, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, Potter and Weasley behind her. She raised her hand and hit vision Draco, hard and the real Draco gingerly touched the bridge of his nose. “That was a nice landing,” he commented. They watched him scamper off and a smug looking vision Hermione, staring after him as he ran._

_…_

_They were in Potions, Slughorn up front explaining the proper end result of Amortentia. Hermione remembered this day very clearly. She knew she’d brewed the potion correctly. But when she’d inhaled deeply, up wafted unfamiliar smells. They watched vision Hermione’s brown furrow and the pair looked toward vision Draco. He raised his face, looking equally confused, and looked in Hermione’s direction. The vision Hermione caught on to his steady gaze and her cheeks tinged pink._

_…_

_Vision Draco was in Flourish and Blotts, flipping through a book on magical beasts. He stopped suddenly and looked around conspiratorially before he tore the page from the book. He tossed it aside and folded the page neatly and stowed it in his pocket. Real Hermione gasped at his audacity and real Draco smirked._

_…_

_They were in the Hospital Wing, and vision Hermione was petrified, laying in a bed with her hand reaching out. Vision Draco, under the cover of night, was right next to her. He looked into her hand, where she was clutching a crumpled page from a book. Vision Draco smiled and then ran a single finger over vision Hermione’s hand before stalking away._

_…_

_They were in a corridor outside of the Great Hall. Vision Hermione, clad in her periwinkle Yule Ball attire, was crying on the staircase. Real Hermione snorted at her younger self, wanting to throttle her. Crying over Ron Weasley. They watched as vision Draco and Pansy filed past her, Pansy making a biting comment about how she didn’t know how an international Quidditch star could possibly want anything to do with a mudblood. Vision Draco merely hummed a response but they watched as he looked back at vision Hermione over his shoulder, a look of concern flashing briefly across his still boyish features._

_…_

_Hermione was in her and Harry’s tent, her face swollen and puffy as she held the scrying mirror in her hand. She seemed frustrated and real Draco went to stand next to her. Though no words came out of vision Hermione’s mouth, real Hermione filled in the blanks for Draco. “I want to see him—I need to know he’s safe.”_

_Draco looked at her briefly before watching vision Hermione’s eyes glaze over as she was clearly sucked into a vision of her own. A confused look splashed across her features, then a sad smile. They watched as her features cleared and her face flushed. “I had just Seen you feeding the peacocks,” real Hermione told him._

_…_

_They were on opposite sides of Hermione’s door—real Hermione staring at vision Draco and real Draco staring at vision Hermione. They were sitting on either side of the oak slab, both looking content. They both knew they were experiencing that first gentle, playful hum of magic._

_…_

_They were locked in an embrace, Draco’s journal on the floor behind Hermione’s feet. Their kiss was slow and sensual, while feverish. Real Draco stared at the vision pair with a raised eyebrow._

_…_

_They were somewhere familiar, yet Hermione knew she hadn’t yet seen the precise room just yet. The French villa. Vision Draco was pulling her shirt up over her head, a pretty blush painting his alabaster features as he was leaning up on his knees between hers._

_…_

_Vision Hermione was sitting with an adult Alya, speaking steady sign language in a café somewhere. The two were laughing pleasantly._

_..._

_Vision Hermione was pregnant, crying as her hands shook. Her pants were wet and she looked to be panicking. A vision Draco was nowhere to be found initially, but then he appeared from thin air._

_…_

_They were in a young girl’s room, the same young girl they’d seen in the Apothecary was tracing Draco’s Dark Mark, weeping sadly as vision Draco put his arm around her, himself looking pained beyond measure._

_…_

_Hermione was dressed in all black, flanked by individuals who could only be their adult children, walking out of a cemetery. She was much older, but her face still held that defiant spark to it._

_…_

The pair came out of the visions at the same time, both breathing rapidly as though they’d run a marathon. They looked to one another and Draco grinned widely. “It was _always_ you, Granger.”

 

“Always _you_ ,” she replied in agreeance.

 

“Always _us_ ,” Draco quipped, his voice bright with awe.

 

And his lips were on hers. His kisses were almost always slow and precise, but now, with their declarations hanging in the air, strung up on the lines of magic criss-crossing between them, he kissed her passionately. He slipped his tongue along her lips and when she parted them, it plunged within. He claimed her as his own in that one kiss, pouring every emotion he had into it. The energy and excitement from their rapid-fire joint visions had the both of them positively vibrating. His hands were shaky as he ran them over her hair, down her jaw, rested them on her neck.

 

Hermione pulled back, her already shallow breathing nearly nonexistent from his sudden, passionate assault. And when she looked between them, she saw faint waves of fuchsia running between their bodies—the heat waves Luna had described. Their compatibility and contentment. Love? Hermione tried not to let her mind wander there just yet.

 

As they caught their breath, Draco cradled her face, running his thumbs along her high cheekbones, a soft chuckle catching in his throat. And then he was on her again, his mouth bruising against her own, his hand moving to press his fingers into the soft swells of her hips. His thumb teased just under her jumper, leaving searing trails in its wake.

 

They heard a soft rustling near them and Hermione tore away from him reluctantly. She looked around, and hundreds of ethereal looking beings were slowly ambling around them. “Don’t be afraid,” Draco told her as he put his arm around her waist. “The veil is thinning. They’re free to roam the earth for a few hours.”

 

“Are they ghosts?” she asked, noting that, though they were similar to the resident ghosts at Hogwarts, they looked more like solid human beings just emitting a glowing aura around them.

 

“Not exactly. Ghosts, like the Bloody Baron or Nearly Headless Nick, are doomed to stay here forever. These individuals kind of… _choose_ to come back and roam. They may not necessarily even know they’ve passed.”

 

Hermione just watched the hundreds of glowing bodies move slowly around them, ignoring them completely. “Can they see us?”

 

“No. They aren’t aware of our presence,” Draco answered with a shrug.

 

“It’s kind of…unsettling,” she admitted as one came within six inches of brushing against her hair.

 

“These are the ancestors who came before us, Granger. We owe them everything we have now. And respect above all else,” he replied, retrieving something from his back pocket as he stood.

 

He extended his hand to her and helped her to her feet. “Your trinket,” he mentioned, showing her the Chocolate Frog card he always carried.

 

She pulled the photo of her and her parents out. He turned them toward the bonfire. “We toss them into the fire, putting forth an intention…more like a _wish_ for the upcoming year.”

 

He tossed her card into the blaze and then turned to her with a smile. “Don’t tell me what you’ve wished or intended to come to fruition, or it won’t.”

 

Hermione touched her parents faces and then, without further hesitation, she tossed the photo into the fire. She watched as the flames curled and devoured the paper. She wanted nothing more than to have her parents back. And the man next to her was going to ensure that happened. Hermione laced her fingers with his as they watched the fire embers fly up and rain down at the edges of the fire.

 

“The Muggles are coming,” Draco whispered, nudging his head in the direction of a group of ten or twelve individuals. “They won’t bother us. They probably suspect we’re here to celebrate similarly.”

 

They watched as the individuals stripped down nude and then formed a large circle. They danced and weaved and Hermione could feel her face flush. She noticed that the Muggles paid no mind to the deceased individuals. “They can’t see them?”

 

Draco shook his head. “No. But I suspect they can sense them.”

 

o-o-o

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

 

Chapter 20:

 

“Are you ready to do this?” Draco asked when Healer Holcomb beckoned to the pair to enter his office.

 

Hermione could feel nervous butterflies fluttering in her belly, a nauseated bile rising at the base of her throat. She wanted to have faith in the Healers, to trust them as Draco did. But she still had underlying feelings of guilt, apprehension and fear surrounding the entire rescue operation. Draco pushed her hair behind her ear and kissed her forehead, the gentle brush of his lips on her skin a reassurance.

 

She retrieved her box of photographs and allowed him to lead her into the room. There were five people in the room besides Healer Holcomb—the team Draco had hired. They all exchanged greetings and introductions and Healer Holcomb told her to lie down on the chaise that rested in the middle of the room. Hermione looked around to Draco who stood behind her.

 

He stepped into her back, placing a hand on her hip. “I’m going to sit with her. I need to hold her hand,” he told the group collectively.

 

“I understand you are quite the Legilimens, Mr. Malfoy?” the female Healer asked, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Yes,” he told them slowly, looking at each of their concerned faces in turn.

 

“It might be detrimental if you were to be so close to her as we extract the memories. We can’t afford for you to tamper with her mind at all,” the eldest male in the room said.

 

Draco’s brow furrowed. “I would _never_ use Legilimency on Hermione without permission. These thoughts and memories are private. Except to you all and her parents.”

 

Hermione slipped her hand into his. “I’m okay, Draco. You can wait outside.”

 

“No. I’m not leaving you alone. I will close my mind off completely if I must. But I am sitting right here,” he told her and the room collectively.

 

He had a defiant and protective edge to his voice and he was standing in front of her. The team looked at him and Healer Holcomb sighed. “Let’s get started. Miss Granger, lie down.”

 

Hermione did as told and laid on the puffy chaise in the middle of the room. Draco sat on the floor next to her, putting his arm along her side on the bed and leaning his chin on it as his other hand held hers. “Recall the memories with the same ease you did when we were in your room. Try to remember as many details as possible. If you need to, squeeze my hand—I’m not leaving you.”

 

Hermione’s heart was beating rapidly, an uncomfortable cacophony of anxiety. She swallowed hard and nodded once. “Now, Miss Granger. Close your eyes. You’re going to feel the tip of a wand at your temple and a tingling sensation. This is normal. I’m going to ask you about a series of events in your life and I want you to recall them as clearly as you are able.”

 

For hours, Healer Holcomb interrogated Hermione about everything from her first recollectable memory, her family’s Christmas traditions, her friends, arguments she’d had with her parents, achievements they’d been proud of, their relationship.

 

It was late in the afternoon when the tip of the wand was removed from her skin and she was told to open her eyes. Her head was spinning and the room swirled around her dangerously. When she clenched her eyes tight, Draco leaned into her. He had not moved the entire day and she knew his legs must have gone to sleep. And his fingers from where she’d had them in a bone breaking embrace all day. “How are you feeling, love? Do you need anything? A wet cloth or some water?” he asked her, his voice concerned.

 

Hermione tried swallowing but her throat was achingly dry. “Water,” she replied, her voice a hoarse rasping.

 

Draco conjured a glass and filled it with water, assisting her in sitting up as her head spun once more. She looked down at the pillow where her head had been resting and saw that it was wet with two large stains of tears on either side. She hadn’t even realized she had been crying. Hermione dropped her head to Draco’s shoulder, closing her eyes tightly and he put an arm around her back. “It’s okay. It’s over now. It’s done.”

 

He was shushing her and the others filed out to give them a moment. Hermione didn’t think it was possible to shed anymore tears, but here she was sobbing into Draco’s shirt. He ran a hand over the back of her head over her curls, down her arms, over her back. Anywhere he could reach to reassure her that he was there and that she was safe.

 

Hermione had tried to push all of these memories from her mind—they were too painful to recall when she held very little hope that she would ever interact with her parents again. And yet, for hours, the entirety of the day, she’d lain there and recalled her entire life. “You did so good, love. I’m so proud of you,” Draco whispered into her ear, pulling back so he could wipe her face.

 

She felt them begin to subside and her sobs became dry hiccups. “Drink some water,” he instructed gently, holding up the glass once more.

 

“Thank you,” she mumbled after a few moments.

 

“For what?” he asked her.

 

“Everything. I would never have had the courage to do this on my own. I’d given up hope after Arthur and I failed to bring them back.”

 

Draco used the tips of his fingers to brush away the final tears and then kissed her salty cheeks in turn. “I want to help you as you’ve helped me. This is nothing compared to what you’ve done for me—I would have pitched myself off the Astronomy Tower by now if you hadn’t been there. It’s…it’s always been you and it always will be, and I need you to see that I’m a suitable match. I’ll do anything in the world for you because I want you happy.”

 

Hermione felt a warmth surge through her and she knew it wasn’t because of the assault to her mind she’d undergone. No, this warmth was different, a tingling that started in her heart and spread outward to the tips of her fingers and toes, creating static electricity in her hair. _Was it love?_ She couldn’t be sure. But she lifted her fingers and brushed them through the hair just above his ear and looked into his eyes, wide and sincere.

 

“I _am_ happy. Happier than I’ve ever been. Even with Harry and Ron…I never fit in just right. They were really best mates and I was the brainy third wheel. I love them, but…with you, I feel like…I don’t know. We _belong_ ,” she told him.

 

Draco smiled a little and bowed his head as he nodded. “Who would have thought? The Princess and the Pariah.”

 

Hermione chuckled lowly at his dark joke and lifted his chin with the crook of her finger. “We’re meeting with Katie tomorrow. We’re going to change your pariah status.”

 

He sighed, exasperated by her perpetual optimism where he was concerned. “Are you able to stand yet?” he asked, backing away from her a little.

 

He ran his hands down her sides and over her thighs and then back up along her upper arms. “You don’t feel too wobbly or shaky just sitting here.”

 

“I’m fine,” she reassured him, moving to stand.

 

Her head was no longer spinning but throbbing dully. Draco put an around her back, holding her opposite hip and her closest hand with his free one. “Let’s get you something for your head,” he told her, sensing her discomfort.

 

Healer Holcomb was standing in the corridor outside of the room, a vial of potion at the ready. Hermione downed it in one go and felt it start to work within her. “Now, Miss Granger, we will take these and the items you have provided with us. Without having seen into their minds and how powerful the memory charm was, I cannot give you an estimated time. But we will keep in touch with regular updates.”

 

Hermione nodded. “Send them to Draco. I couldn’t bear to read if they weren’t going right.”

 

Healer Holcomb gave her a pitying smile, one she hated. She couldn’t stand people feeling sorry for her. “Let’s go, Draco. I need to lie down for a spell.”

 

He thanked the Healers and led her to the Floo network. “I’m sorry you couldn’t see the children today,” she mentioned to him, looking in the direction of the orphanage wing.

 

“It’s okay,” he told her, stepping into the fireplace with her.

 

“Let’s get into my room. I’m weak.”

 

They landed in the Headmistress’ office and Hermione was thankful she was nowhere to be found. She didn’t think she could handle more pity. Draco led her up to her room and she sat on the edge of her bed. “Can you help me change into my pajamas? I want to go to sleep,” she told him, to which he looked up, the tips of his ears pink.

 

She gestured to her chest of drawers. “Just some bottoms. I have a shirt on under my jumper.”

 

Draco retrieved a pair of flannel bottoms and returned to where she had put her head into her hand. He cleared his throat, awkwardly standing in front of her. She unzipped her jeans and stood, placing her hand on his shoulder. He looked straight behind her holding a steadying hand under her elbow.

 

She kicked her trousers away and sat once more, her legs becoming shaky. He retrieved the bottoms and brought them to her feet, training his eyes on the bed beside her as he slid them up. “Come on, lift up,” he told her, pulling the pajamas up as she did.

 

Hermione pulled her jumper up and over her head, tossing it to the floor. She was wearing a soft t-shirt underneath and she removed her bra through her sleeve. Draco busied himself turning her bedspread down and fluffing her pillow. “I feel like I may vomit,” she told him.

 

He helped her walk around to the other side of the bed and climb in. “Some sleep will do you good. Do you need anything?” he asked, tucking her blanket around her and worrying over her in a way she imagined Narcissa doing to him.

 

She tapped the bed next to her and Draco gave her a small smirk. He stripped down to just his trousers and white t-shirt. Hermione heard him remove his heavy watch and set it on her nightstand and thought back to how significant she’d found that gesture when they’d settled into the blanket fort. Now, just a couple of months later, she found it soothing—the _plunk_ of heavy metal landing on wood. A routine they’d fallen into. He always removed his watch and placed it on her nightstand when they slept in her room. He’d done the same in the vision with their son, placing it on top of the baby’s chest of drawers. This was her last thought as he turned on his side and cuddled into her, placing his head on her shoulder and his hand protectively over her abdomen. She drifted to sleep, her headache beginning to dull with each passing moment.

 

o-o-o

 

Hermione awoke the next morning, no longer feeling as though she’d gotten hit by a stampede of hippogriffs. She refused to dwell on the day before, refused to recall the memories she’d been forced to bring forth. Today, she needed to be the strong one. Today, Draco would meet Katie Bell to apologize. Hermione had written Katie on Draco’s behalf, nearly begging her for a meeting. After three back and forth correspondences, Hermione had convinced her to meet at a Muggle café near Diagon Alley.

 

She opened her eyes and Draco was already awake, still lying on his side. His head rested on his bent elbow and the first finger of his other hand was twirling one of her curls. He raised an eyebrow. “How do you feel this morning?” he asked, and his voice was raspy and hoarse with sleep.

 

“Better,” she told him with a nod.

 

He dipped his head and kissed along her collarbone softly. She didn’t know when she would get used to waking up alongside him, his gentle attentiveness to her. She ran her fingertips through his sleep mussed hair. “Are you ready for today?” she asked him and he stilled his movements.

 

She felt him nod against her and then he began peppering her with kisses once more. She didn’t think she would ever tire of the feel of his lips on her skin. He dragged his lips up her neck to the hollow behind her ear, his hand grasping her hip firmly. “You’re so beautiful when you first wake in the morning,” he told her before taking her earlobe between his lips.

 

Her heart thrummed pleasantly in her chest, the butterflies back with a voracity in her belly. They kissed often enough, but rarely in the bed—almost an unspoken boundary. She would be open to heated snogging sessions in her bed…or in his, his pale skin surrounded by a sea of black bedding, providing that achingly tantalizing contrast that made her weak. But she wanted him to set the pace as he saw fit. He pulled away with a groan and flopped back into her pillows. “We should get ready—it’s nearly ten already. We’re to meet Katie in an hour.”

 

He rose, pulling his jumper over his head and his belt through the loops as she watched. They hadn’t done anything, he’d refused to even look when he’d helped her dress the night before. But she felt as though it was an intimate act, his redressing. She’d never just sat and watched him do it before.

 

He looked at her with a bemused look. “What?” he asked, clasping his watch as she stared.

 

She shook her head a fraction and smiled sleepily. “You’re handsome, you know? I like watching you dress, just as much as I will one day enjoy watching you undress,” she finished cheekily.

 

Draco narrowed his eyes at her and bent down to kiss her cheek. “You’re a mess, witch.”

 

o-o-o

 

Draco’s lighthearted mood had dissipated by the time they stood outside of the café. Hermione laced her fingers with his and he gulped audibly. “It’s going to be okay. No matter what happens, I’m here. Even if she doesn’t accept your apology, you’ve done your best.”

 

“I've changed my mind. I’d rather apologize to Weasley first,” he commented, reaching for the door anyway.

 

They entered the café and found Katie Bell, sitting with Angelina Johnson and George Weasley. “Oh, fuck,” Draco muttered under his breath, his spine stiffening.

 

Hermione screamed the same phrase internally. She should have known she would have brought her closest friend. And George and Angelina were an item. She put on a strained smile and stepped forward, giving Draco’s hand a subtle pull. His feet moved almost mechanically next to her. “It’s good to see all of you. Katie, thank you for agreeing to meet us.”

 

Draco cleared his throat. “Yes. Thank you. I can’t tell you what it means to me to have the chance to speak with you in person. Angelina and George. A pleasure.”

 

He dipped his head into a bow as he addressed each, his tone solid but remorseful already. George was raising an eyebrow at the pair’s clasped hands. “My sister said you were courting. I never believed her.”

 

“Well, we are. I think you’ll find that War has a way of changing people, George.”

 

The redhead nodded, his face solemn as he recalled his twin. His demeanor was less carefree and more guarded in the months following his twin’s death. Katie was sitting back in her chair, her arms crossed and Angelina was looking between everyone, gauging the likelihood that there would be an argument.

 

“May we sit?” Hermione asked and Katie waved her hand to indicate they should. Hermione put a silencing charm around their space to keep prying Muggle ears away.

 

“I’m only meeting with him because of you, Hermione,” she told the witch, though she was looking directly at Draco.

 

“I understand that,” Draco replied, helping Hermione remove her coat as she sat.

 

He sat next to her and looked at the three Gryffindors. George was looking at him. “So what do you have to say for yourself, then?” he asked, his tone clipped.

 

“George,” Hermione admonished lightly.

 

Draco put his hand on her thigh, silencing her. “I want to explain first what happened leading up to the necklace incident. I know that it is no excuse, but it all goes into where my mindset was.”

 

Katie shifted in her seat and George waved him on. Draco looked at the table top between them all. “My father was incarcerated at the end of my fifth year. One month short of my sixteenth birthday. In the time following, I was brought before the Dark Lord, where I was repeatedly threatened that if I did not take my father’s place, my mother would pay the price. I was naïve, of course. Ready to please everyone. I took the Mark when I turned sixteen, against my mother’s wishes. After that, I withstood repeated rounds of the Cruciatus curse and…other unpleasantries. I was constantly threatened, my mother’s life as well. I was told that should I fail, I would be forced to take her life myself.”

 

Katie’s mouth fell open, and Angelina looked horrified. George’s brow furrowed and he sat back in his chair, regarding Draco. Draco continued. “I know that none of this excuses what I did. But the repeated threats and torture began to wear on me. I never wanted to kill Dumbledore. But I saw no way around it, if I wanted my mother to live. I was raised to believe the Order was incompetent—”

 

George scoffed at that and Hermione glared. “Tell me how many people died under the Order’s watch, George,” she demanded and he snapped his jaw shut. “That’s what I thought.”

 

Draco looked between the two. “I’m not here to debate the competency of the Order. Everyone who died fighting for the Order was braver than I ever could be, and that is a fact. But still, I didn’t trust them at the time. I had no one and I was getting desperate. I wanted a way to kill him that would allow me the luxury of not looking in his eyes as he died.”

 

Draco finally raised his eyes and looked to Katie. “That’s where you came in. I am so sorry, Katie, for what I did to you.”

 

“You nearly killed me! I was in St. Mungo’s for _months!_ ” she replied angrily.

 

Draco looked as though he might cry. Hermione squeezed his hand under the table. “I know. It’s inexcusable, really. I’m aware that I was being selfish and careless and reckless. But you must know—I never intended to hurt you. I never intended for you to come in direct contact with the cursed necklace.”

 

Katie looked him over, analyzing him. “And why should I believe anything you say?”

 

Draco opened his mouth to speak but Hermione spoke instead. “Because I do.”

 

“And how do you know he’s not just using you, Hermione. For your status?” George asked.

 

Draco’s shoulders slumped forward slightly. Hermione held her head high. “Because _I_ sought _him_ out.”

 

George raised an eyebrow. Angelina cleared her throat. “Forgive me, Hermione. But this all seems…strange. I mean, you—a Muggle-born—with Draco Malfoy—an ex-Death Eater.”

 

“I understand how this must look to everyone. But…I truly care deeply for Hermione. I have already made amends to her and continue trying to do so each day. I have never once tried to use her name to further myself—if I had, there would have been write ups about us in the paper already.”

 

George stared at him, weighing his words. Finally he sighed and leaned forward on the table. “I’m supposed to hate you. But you’re making it hard for me. I feel sorry for you.”

 

“That’s not my intention, either. I do not want pity from anyone. I simply wanted to apologize to Katie and she needed to know a little of my history before I did. That way she knows that I wasn’t doing it as an attack on her, and that I had no malicious intent toward her,” Draco told him, looking at Katie once more.

 

“But Dumbledore still died,” Angelina commented.

 

“Dumbledore was dying anyway,” Hermione told her. “He had probably a week, maybe two. He’d entered into an agreement with Snape that he would carry out Draco’s task in the event that he couldn’t. And Draco lowered his wand.”

 

The three Gryffindors looked at the Slytherin and he held Hermione’s hand in a death grip. Hermione sighed. “Look. Draco has been through more than we could ever imagine. I mean, Voldemort took up residence in his home as a punishment for his father’s wrong doings. He was tortured, berated, lived in constant fear of death or further retaliation. He’s trying to make amends.”

 

“I hope it’s not too little, too late,” Draco said quietly. “I really am deeply sorry for everything that I’ve done. I thank the powers that be every day that I’m not in Azkaban, but I know that’s where I deserve to be. I just wanted to apologize in person and ask you to consider forgiveness in the future.”

 

The others regarded him, no one speaking until George said after a long moment, “Fuck. You had to be charming and remorseful, didn’t you? This would have been a lot easier if you were still an arrogant little prick.”

 

Draco laughed lightly. Katie wiped a tear away from her face. “I appreciate your apology. I cannot say that I forgive everything you did. But I understand a little better now. You’re different—Hermione must have something to do with that.”

 

Draco looked to Hermione and smiled, squeezing her hand once more. “She’s a beautiful soul and I can only hope that some of that wears off on me over time.”

 

George was looking at the pair strangely. “Ron is seeing someone,” he said after a long moment.

 

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Is he? Good for him.”

 

“I think maybe you should reach out to him. I know he feels like a wanker for what happened on your birthday. But he’s too stubborn to apologize,” George told her, giving Draco a look.

 

o-o-o

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21:

 

Hermione held Draco's hand as they made their way down to Hagrid's newly constructed hut. They had a free period that morning and Hagrid had sent for them both. It was a cool morning in mid-November. The temperature was tolerable until a breeze came along and kicked up the leaves all around them. Draco, whose mood was light, looked over at her chattering teeth and smirked. "My little witch. Always forgetting she has ways of staving off the cold," he commented.

 

She laughed a cloud of misty breath in the morning air. "I do forget about warming charms sometimes."

 

"I wasn't referring to magic," he told her, using her hand to pull her in front of him.

 

He wrapped his arms around her, kissing her crazily as she scrunched up her face and laughed, both of them stumbling forward down the path. Hermione loved the days when Draco woke up in a lighthearted mood, as though there wasn't a thing in the world that could bring him down. They'd been working together to ignore all of the comments in the corridors and the Great Hall as they ate together at the Gryffindor table with Neville and Ginny. When a particularly vicious comment was thrown his way, Hermione would squeeze his hand and he would raise his chin defiantly. This particular morning, Draco was all handsome smiles and breathy, deep laughs. And it made Hermione's heart sing.

 

As they passed the Black Lake, they noticed a small gaggle of students gathered around something, a raucous laughter rising up into the air. Draco stopped pushing Hermione forward, an arm slung around her chest from behind. He rested his chin on her shoulder for a moment as they surveyed the strange sight. "What do you suppose that is all about?" he asked, his warm breath tickling her ear.

 

As they stood watching a moment longer, Theodore Nott walked up behind them. "Well. If this isn't a heartwarming picture. The ex-Death Eater embracing his one-time foe. How touching," he said, his voice more teasing than serious.

 

"Nott," Hermione warned, shrugging Draco off.

 

Draco rolled his eyes. "It's okay, Granger. He's just trying to ruffle your feathers."

 

Hermione glared at Theo. She still didn't like him much, despite the fact that he and Draco were talking more regularly again. Theo gave her an infuriating Slytherin smirk, one that made her want to drive her fist into his mouth. "Why don't you go take a look at my latest work," he told them, gesturing to where the crowd was ever growing.

 

Hermione looked at the gathering, her interest piqued. Draco groaned. "What did you do, Nott?"

 

"Go look," he encouraged, shoving his hands into his pockets with a smug look on his face.

 

Hermione dragged Draco to the lake, pushing through to the front. She looked down and saw two Slytherins, seemingly passed out alongside the lake. "What…? Are those…? What kind of Muggle sex implements?" Draco was muttering next to her.

 

The boys were naked as Nifflers, a few rather unsavory Muggle toys around and on them. Bottles of firewhiskey littered the area and their clothes were nowhere to be found. Hermione looked up at Draco, who was looking at the strange items with a horrified curiosity, his uptight pure-blood upbringing causing a faint blush to appear on his face. Hermione threw her head back and laughed, louder and harder than everyone else. Draco looked at her, aware that she was laughing partially due to his ignorance and his blush deepened to a harsh scarlet.

 

At that particular moment, they heard Ginny Weasley walking down. "All right, all right. Break it up," she said in her most authoritative Head Girl voice.

 

Everyone began grumbling and moving away, spreading out to head to classes. Ginny walked up and looked down at the two Slytherin boys. She looked this way and that. "I know it's cold out here, but damn. What a shame," she commented. "The mischievous arsehole in me says to leave them here—they deserve to be ridiculed if they're going to get sloppy drunk and pass out in public. But the Head Girl in me says we should go get their head of house. Damn. Responsibility."

 

She shook her head and walked up to the castle to retrieve Professor Slughorn and Hermione turned to Draco once more. Theo was standing on his other side. "Don't look so scandalized, Malfoy," he commented.

 

Draco cleared his throat. "I'm not."

 

Theo clapped his hand on the blond's back. "Please, mate. If you were any more tightly wound, I could pull a string and you'd zoom into the air like those little brooms we had as kids. They're just replica pricks."

 

Hermione turned them away from the pitifully comical sight. "Leave him alone, Nott."

 

"That's four. Have no fear, Malfoy. I know the fifth and the snake will pay. In due time. And that one won't be so laughable," Theo said darkly, nodding once at Hermione and taking his leave as well.

 

Hermione began their walk to Hagrid's once more. Draco was silent next to her. "You okay?" she asked him, shaking their clasped hands to break his reverie.

 

"Are those things…normal for Muggles?" he asked curiously.

 

She shrugged. "I suppose a healthy relationship or when a person is…alone, they could be."

 

"I certainly never saw anything like that in any of my father's _Pure Play_ magazines when I was younger," he commented, clearing his throat.

 

Hermione giggled once more, imagining a young Draco Malfoy, just hitting the age where his voice cracked and sexual feelings ruled his every thought, sneaking a peek at moving pictures of pure-blood witches in precarious situations. "It's not funny," he pouted slightly.

 

That made her laugh even more. "You're cute when you're bashful and embarrassed. Don't worry. I've never seen any of those items up close and personally… and I read my mother's smutty romance novels when I was younger…purely out of curiosity, of course."

 

"Of course," he replied, grinning now that they were even once more.

 

They reached Hagrid's cabin and she raised her hand to knock. Hagrid filled the doorway and pulled her into a bone-crushing hug. "'Ermione. I've missed yer. And, Draco. Come on in. Get outter the cold."

 

Draco looked around in the cabin, larger than Hagrid's last. He hadn't spoken to Hagrid since the war and Hermione could see his pulse throbbing in his throat. He was a little nervous, but the fact that Hagrid had invited him and not the other way around seemed to ease his mind some. He gave Hagrid a polite smile. "I'm glad to see that you were able to rebuild. I'm sorry that your home was burned. I don't know why my Aunt saw fit to do that, but I feel personally responsible."

 

Hagrid regarded the blond man, who held nothing but remorse and polite respect for the gatekeeper for the first time in his presence. He gave a gruff nod. "I'm not gonna say I trust yeh jus' yet. But ‘Ermione does. And I'm tryin' ter take each day as it comes and not live in the past."

 

"One more apology, Hagrid. And then we can move forward. I apologize for being a little shit before," Hagrid raised an eyebrow at his choice of language, "For all of the rude things I said. The debacle with your Hippogriff. All of it. I'm sorry."

 

Hagrid nodded and patted Draco on the back, forcing him forward and causing him to stumble slightly. "Forward," the half-giant replied.

 

He gestured to his large, handmade wooden table. There was a plate of biscuits in the middle and a pot of tea with three cups set. Hagrid turned his back on them and Hermione pointed to the food and tea. She shook her head and made a sharp slicing gesture at her neck in a "don't eat it—just be polite" way.

 

"So, have yer heard from Harry and Ron?"

 

Hermione looked down at her teacup as Hagrid retrieved the teapot from the center of the table. He poured what looked to be thin mud into their cups and she saw Draco's brow furrow beside her. "Harry sends a letter once a week or so."

 

"And Ron?"

 

Draco looked up at Hermione, gauging her reaction. She shrugged. "Ronald made a fool of himself on my birthday and I haven't heard from him since. George thinks I should reach out to him, so I did."

 

Draco's pale eyebrows shot up toward his hairline. This was definitely news to him. He looked into his teacup, bringing it to his lips and Hermione heard him mumble a vanishing spell next to her, the muddy tea disappearing inconspicuously. "Well, that was mighty big of you, Granger."

 

"I wouldn't say that. I simply wrote, ‘If you care to apologize to Draco and me for that display on my birthday, write back,'" she grinned and Draco smiled slightly.

 

She had nothing to apologize to Ron for. They had never been an item—she had, at one time, thought she wanted to be. But clearly, the long, drawn-out dance they'd participated in was not indicative of a budding relationship. It was discernable to her now that it was never going anywhere. All she could do is compare it to how she felt about Draco now. She had fallen for him so quickly, so completely. He validated her, he made her feel beautiful, he cared about her passions and interests and aspirations. Sure, he would speak of Quidditch or chess on occasion, but he kept it to a minimum, instead opting to speak with her about things that interested them both. He did his own work and never begged to copy hers, never used her for his own gain.

 

Ron would forever be important to her, but he was never going to be a suitable match for her. And it took falling for Draco Malfoy for her to realize how wrong she'd been her entire life.

 

"Ron's always been the stubborn one, yeh know that," Hagrid replied, frowning at the thought that the Golden Trio wasn't as golden as he'd hoped.

 

"Well, he needs to man up and apologize. I will not be the one to repeatedly seek him out to repair our friendship," Hermione said, perhaps a little more crossly than necessary.

 

Hagrid shook his head slowly. "No. I wouldn't expec' yer to. He's got a lotter growin' up ter do. What about Harry? How's he taking this…?" Hagrid waved a giant hand between the couple.

 

Harry had been calling her ‘Lady Malfoy' since before the school year had even started. The War had changed him enough, made him grow up. The talk he and Hermione had shared about her scrying and Draco had confused him, sure. But he accepted it because he knew it was what Hermione wanted, vowing to kill Malfoy if he ever hurt her. Hermione wished Ron would pull it together enough to mature and rekindle their friendship—she did miss him.

 

"Harry has matured a lot since the end of the War. I guess dying will do that to a wizard. Plus, Ginny is supportive of us, which helps tremendously."

 

Hagrid raised his eyebrows. "Well…never in a million years did I expec' this. But yer both look happy."

 

Hermione smiled over at Draco, who grinned and shrugged. "Eh. She's all right."

 

 

 

o-o-o

 

"I want to take you out," Draco told Hermione on Saturday afternoon.

 

"We do plenty together," Hermione replied, looking up from where they were charting an Arithmancy assignment.

 

"No. I want to take you on a real date. I want to show you off. Properly," he said, pulling the quill from her hands and closing her textbook.

 

"At a wizarding location?" she asked him, intrigued.

 

He stood and looked slightly guilty. "Not yet. Baby steps, Granger. I was thinking Muggle London. I don't want our first proper date to be blemished by us either getting turned down at the door or our picture snapped with a horrible headline to follow."

 

"Was Halloween not a date?" she asked, standing as well.

 

He sat on the edge of the desk. "Halloween was special. But I want to wine and dine you and show everyone that I'm lucky enough to have you on my arm."

 

"When do you want to go?" she asked, stepping in to place her hands on his shoulders.

 

His hands went to her hips. "I already made reservations for this evening," he told her slyly, a smug grin on his face.

 

She gave him a look. "That was awfully presumptive."

 

"You wouldn't turn me down would you?" he teased, his hands sliding over her hips and resting on her thighs.

 

Hermione pretended to think about it. "Fine. I'll go with you tonight. But next weekend, we go to a wizarding restaurant, so I can show you off. We'll have to eventually, and the sooner we do it, the sooner I can punish anyone stupid enough to write negatively about us."

 

She knew that he needed gentle prodding to deal with difficult situations. He wanted to avoid it at all costs, but she knew it needed to be done. It was important in his healing to face the difficulties in life head on, and she had every intention of being right beside him the entire time.

 

Draco sighed and brought his lips to the column of her neck. "Fine. Deal."

 

She tilted her head to give him access and he peppered light kisses over her skin. She ran her nails through his hair at the nape of his neck and was met with a low grumble at the back of his throat. His hands went farther down her legs to the bottom of her skirt. His fingertips played over the tops of her stockings and he slid one finger beneath the top, teasing the sensitive skin at the back of her thigh. This was far braver than he'd ever been. Hermione's heart started racing. She tucked her hands under the collar of his shirt and he responded by dragging his hands a little higher on her thighs, the tips of fingers brushing against her bottom.

 

"Is this okay?" he whispered against the skin behind her ear.

 

She responded by stepping closer to him, filling an imperceptible gap. She ran her hands down his chest to the hem of his shirt, untucking it from his trousers. He leaned back, looking down at her. Her fingernails raked lightly over the bare skin of his waist and she raised her face to look up at him once more. "It's okay."

 

Draco smiled bashfully and brought his lips to hers once more. She slipped her fingertips beneath his belt on his hip, feeling the warmth of his skin. How had she ever thought he would be made of ice? He was sinfully heated. She brought her other hand to his thigh running it up to rest where his leg bent at his pelvis as he sat. There was a little hum in his throat, a slight subconscious twitch of his hips and he ran one hand up and gripped her bottom fully. He brought this other hand to the back of her neck, pulling her closer to him. His hand slid around slightly and he ran a thumb over her jaw.

 

If she was desperately aware of his hand caressing her bare bottom under her knickers, surely he was as hyper-aware of her hand so close to him. He brought his hand from her neck and ran a single fingertip over her clavicle. He seemed to be hesitating and she realized he wanted to bring his hand lower but couldn't bring himself to do it, unsure if she would be comfortable with it. Hermione pulled back to run her lips over his jaw, placing a brave open-mouth kiss on his neck, tasting his pale flesh. She put her hand over his, giving it a light squeeze and sliding it down to cup her breast. He looked down at where his hand rest, his lips parted in admiring inquisitiveness.

 

Draco moved his hand over her, exploring the feel over her brassiere and the soft fabric of her shirt. "They're not much," she shrugged, smirking down at him.

 

He looked up from her chest to her eyes, running his hand over her side to rest on her hip. He touched her bare waist under her t-shirt, just as she'd done to him. "You're bloody perfect, Hermione. Every single thing about you is perfection."

 

She smiled and tucked her face next to his, embarrassed by his words. He hadn't even seen her naked yet and he could make her feel as though she were the loveliest witch he'd ever laid eyes on. He pulled back, his hands coming up to rest on either side of her face. "One of these days, I'm going to show you just how beautiful you are and you will finally believe me."

 

"Why do you always pull away so soon, Draco?" she asked him, her voice little more than an utterance.

 

Draco bit his lip and raised an eyebrow. "Honestly? I'm a little afraid. I don't fancy being so incompetent at something so basic."

 

"One of these days, I'll show you that you're doing just fine and you will finally believe me," she told him, taking his hand and pulling him into a standing position so they could get prepared for their evening.

 

 

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22:

 

After two full hours of primping, Hermione finally felt ready to meet Draco for their first real date. She had changed her clothing three times, tossing random articles around her room. Normally, she didn’t care much about her appearance and she knew Draco didn’t either—he’d told her on numerous occasions that her strange style was endearing. But there was something special about this night—he considered it their first date and he wanted to show her off.

 

Hermione finally settled on a black sheath dress that made her feel like Audrey Hepburn in _Breakfast at Tiffany’s._ Laughing a little to herself at the thought, she decided to pull on a layered necklace of pearls to match Audrey’s. The majority of the time spent, however was on her hair. She used nearly an entire tub of Sleekeazy’s to pull her hair into a large puff of a chignon, sleek and smooth. She pushed a pearl comb into the top of the knot. She wasn’t the greatest of cosmetic artists, but she managed a tame cat eye eyeliner and red lip. She pulled a pair of low kitten heels on when a soft knock sounded at her door.

 

Draco let himself into the bedroom and his eyes grew wide at the sight of her. “Whoa,” was all he could manage.

 

He had a bouquet of flowers—roses of blush, pale cymbidium orchids, purple heather. Hermione raised an eyebrow at his attire—for the first time since he’d donned a Slytherin jersey, he was wearing color. Not just any color, however, but a shirt of the loveliest shade of cornflower blue and a tie of dark blue circles. The color looked so striking with his platinum blond hair—which she noticed looked freshly trimmed within the last few hours—and the greys of his eyes that she wondered why he never wore more than black. “Yeah,” she replied in agreement. “You look so dashing in blue!”

 

He gave her a lopsided half smile and conjured a vase to place the flowers in on her bedside table. “Are you ready?” he asked her and he suddenly looked nervous.

 

She retrieved her travelling cloak, which could pass in the Muggle world as normal and he pulled on a wool pea coat. He was the picture of a perfectly raised pure-blooded gentleman as he escorted her onto the carriages into Hogsmeade and then Apparated them away.

 

They landed in an alley along the Thames and he took her hand and placed it into his elbow. “We just need to walk a little way, if that’s alright?”

 

She smiled at the prospect of walking through a crowded area, his head held high with pride at having her on his arm. He walked them into the throng of city goers and Hermione could nearly see the tenseness leave his shoulders as they melted into society normally. No one recognized them, no one bothered them. No one cared—but he did. And she did. He cared that he was able to take her somewhere without it becoming a fiasco and she felt a calm wash over her at the thought that he could possibly have a good evening, unencumbered by his past.

 

They walked along to the end of a pier where a large boat awaited—a dinner cruise. Hermione froze at the sight of it. He looked down at her, concern and panic written all over his features. “I get sea sick,” she tried to explain. “I’m sorry to ruin our first date.”

 

Draco raised an eyebrow and leaned into her. _“Motus male,”_ he whispered, bringing his lips to the hollow just behind her ear. He repeated the same on the other side, letting his lips linger a little longer on that side. He pulled back and smirked. “You think we haven’t had motion sick Quidditch players? Handy little spell.”

 

Hermione felt the place his lips had brushed harden ever so slightly and knew she would be just fine. She placed her hand back in his arm and they moved forward once more. Other couples were filing in ahead of them and behind them. Draco waited patiently as the others went onto the boat, and when he looked down at her, his smile was infectious. “I hope you enjoy this. I tried to pick an activity that was ‘normal’ but could still be memorable. I know you don’t enjoy anything too ostentatious.”

 

“I’m already enjoying it,” Hermione replied, leaning up to brush her lips across his cheek.

 

When they stepped up the gentleman checking everyone in, he gave a kind smile. “Reservations for Draco Malfoy.”

 

Hermione noticed that, unlike when he had to say his name around school, his voice swelled with pride as it used to. These Muggles didn’t know him, but he could be a proud aristocrat in peace. “Ah. Mr. Malfoy, of course. Right this way,” the man replied, straightening his coat as he led the couple into the heart of the boat.

 

They went up the stairs to the top deck. There was a table near the bow of the ship, three stories up from where the water lapped against the boat. Candlelit lanterns hung around, creating a soft light. Alongside the table was a fireplace encased in glass and its warmth created a warm, romantic ambience and took the bitter chill out of the November air. Draco led her to the table and removed her outer cloak, handing it to the nearest staff member. The fire was cozy and there wasn’t much of a breeze on this night, so she was comfortable—she suspected he cast an additional warming charm just in case. It was then that she noticed there wasn’t another soul in sight, save for the waitstaff. Draco had reserved the entirety of the deck for the two of them.

 

He sat across from her and a bottle of wine was brought to the table. Draco poured some in each glass and she took a timid sip. This was the most romantic and terrifying thing anyone had ever done for her. Hermione knew he was wealthy—clearly. But she cringed to think how much it had cost him to pull this off. “Not as good as my family’s,” he commented, swirling his glass so the burgundy liquid spun. “But still pretty good,” he gave her a grin.

 

Hermione nodded and smiled. “It is.”

 

Draco bit the inside of his cheek. “Well…what do you think?” he asked her, gesturing around them as they felt the boat lurch forward slowly.

 

Hermione looked around at the pretty setting they were seated in and out beyond the boat at the Thames River. The Tower Bridge in the distance was lit up in shades of blue and purple and the lights of the buildings lining the river twinkled pleasantly. “It’s beautiful, Draco. But…I don’t deserve all this. I thought we’d just have a quiet dinner together.”

 

He narrowed his eyes at her and placed his hand on top of hers across the table. “I don’t want to ever hear you say that again. What’s mine is yours. Or do I need to conjure a scrying mirror and revisit our future once more?” he asked her, his voice serious, his gaze steady.

 

She felt her heart skip a beat at the thought. “No.”

 

His face softened into a smile once more. “Good girl. Now, if you don’t mind, instead of ordering individual plates of items, I told them to bring us a variety of items to try.”

 

“Sounds good to me,” she told him as he waved to the waiter.

 

Hermione watched Draco’s face as he took in the sights of the city, sheer fascination and intrigue written all over his features. He turned back to her once more when he felt her eyes on him. “It’s customary on the first real date in the courting stage for the man to buy a piece of jewelry for the woman,” he told her quietly, reaching into his pocket to retrieve a long, thin box.

 

She watched as he stood and walked around to where she sat. “But you are not any woman. And I couldn’t find a single diamond or ruby that reminded me of you,” he explained, leaning on the table before her.

 

He cracked open the box and held within was a small glass ball, a shrunken white peacock feather, not much larger than a long grain of rice, housed within. The ball was attached to a delicate platinum chain and seemed to subtly glow from within. “You first believed better of me when you saw me with the peacocks. We had to get rid of them when the Ministry seized some of our assets at the Manor, but I found this one blowing in the wind one day and I kept it because I had a feeling it was significant somehow,” he told her, removing the trinket from the box and stepping around behind her.

 

When the glass charm touched the hollow at the base of her neck, she could feel a light pulsing. Once it was clasped, he put his hand over it and pressed it lightly into her skin. “Do you feel that?” he asked her, whispering into her ear from behind.

 

“Yes,” her voice was barely an audible decibel.

 

“That is _my_ heartbeat. Now you can feel how your pretty smile makes my heart skip a beat,” he told her and Hermione felt a strong elation wash over her entire being as he sat back down.

 

The pulsing was quick—he was nervous. She tried to see if their heartbeats would line up when the waiters brought over dishes of food to try. As they each retrieved a few items, Draco cleared his throat. “I was thinking about doing something special for the kids,” he began, popping a square of cheese into his mouth.

 

“Oh?”

 

“I was wondering if you would want to go with me. I want to take them to a dragon sanctuary,” he told her, keeping his voice low so the nearby Muggle staff couldn’t hear.

 

She quirked an eyebrow. “A dragon sanctuary? Is that even safe?” she asked him.

 

“The sanctuary houses elderly, ill or rescued dragons. It’s open to visit—they hope that being able to interact and see the beasts up close, people will donate to the cause. The kids all love when I tell them dragon stories,” Draco said with a shrug.

 

“Sure. I’ll go with you. All those children are bound to be a handful alone,” she told him thoughtfully, trying to imagine Draco trying to guide a gaggle of small children through a zoo-like dragon sanctuary.

 

“I got permission from the orphanage staff for next weekend,” he mentioned and he grew quiet, pensive.

 

She studied his face and she could tell he was getting ready to tell her something exciting, but he was trying to figure out how. The charm around her neck was hammering. “What is it, Draco?”

 

“I have some good news. At least, I think it’s good…”

 

“What?” she prodded gently, wondering what had him so knotted up inside.

 

“Alya’s coming home,” he announced, his face cracking into a wide grin.

 

Hermione sat back into her chair, forgetting the plate before her. “How did you manage that?”

 

Draco let out a long exhale of air. “A long, drawn out paperwork process. Character references from McGonagall and Madam Rosmerta and a few of the affluent Muggle-born families my mother has been interacting with. Housing inspections. My mother doesn’t know quite yet—the last correspondence she’d heard is that we would get an answer the first of the year.”

 

“That’s wonderful, Draco! What a fantastic way to start a new year.”

 

“Or end a horrid one. She can come home as early as the twenty-second of December. They have one more search to conduct,” he told her. “She’ll be home for her first Christmas with us!”

 

Hermione thought about sweet little Alya, never having been home to celebrate the holidays with the Malfoys, her mother, father and big brother. Then thought of her own family—still oblivious to her existence half way around the world—and had to swallow three good times to bite down the bitterness. Draco noticed her smile falter, though it was slight and he reached across the table once more to clasp her hand. “The Healers have found your parents after careful tracking. They’re studying their day-to-day routines and find that they are otherwise in decent health. They’ll bring them home to you…it’s just going to take a while. You’re a powerful witch, Hermione. And that memory charm you laid on them was fierce and impressive, to say the least.”

 

She tried to calm her worries and enjoy the night once more. Draco squeezed her hand. “It will be okay,” he said with conviction, trying to ease her worries.

 

He withdrew his hand and began eating once more. “In the meantime, I would love for you to join my mother and me at the vineyard to welcome Alya home—if you’ll join us.”

 

She wanted nothing more than to spend the holidays with sweet Draco, the strange version of his mother she’d encountered last visit, and kind little Alya. Her parents weren’t around and she couldn’t go back to the Burrow with the way her and Ron’s friendship was currently in shambles. “Of course.”

 

Draco grinned and poured her some more wine. They tasted and tested multiple items, eating until both were full and happy. After dinner, he stood and took her hand. “So, when I called in to make reservations, they told me about some _thing_ they offer. _‘A film by the moonlight?’_ the man called it.”

 

“A film?” she asked, wrinkling her brow as he ambled toward another area of the deck.

 

When they got around the corner, there was a large screen set up. Before it, replacing chairs, there was a massive pile of cushions, blankets and pillows. “I would have had them construct a fort, but I thought it would be lovely to see the stars as we drifted?” he said, almost phrasing it as a question, hoping she’d agree.

 

Hermione gave him a shy smile. “So, what film will we be watching?”

 

 _“’Brief Encounter?’”_ he shrugged. “The only thing I know of films is what I’ve read. However, the man assured me that it is a classic. Ranked as the best British romance of the century.”

 

Hermione had to disagree—she felt her own budding romance with Draco was the best of the century. But she did enjoy the old black and white cinematic tales. She slipped off her heels as Draco toed off his shoes and climbed atop a mountain of billowing pillows and cushions. He pulled a soft blanket up and over where they were propped up into a sitting position and the staff extinguished the twinkling lights and left only a few lanterns lit along the rails of the boat. The screen flickered to life and the opening sequence began. Hermione sat in between his knees and cuddled into Draco’s chest and allowed the soft pulse of his steady heartbeat soothe her into relaxation. “That’s incredible!” Draco whispered excitedly when the scene began to play out.

 

She thought it strange that this was his first time watching a movie, amusement playing over her face as she looked up at him. “Oh, hush,” he told her, squeezing her round the middle.

 

Hermione settled into him and he ran his fingertips over her bare arms as they cuddled under the cozy blankets. The sky above them was clear, a few stars evident over the city lights. She wondered if she had ever felt so calm, so collected, so at peace with another human being in her life.

 

Draco placed featherlight kisses along where her neck swept into her back and rested his chin on her shoulder, wrapping his arms solidly around her. The date may have been more than she was used to but she enjoyed herself, enjoyed the feel of his presence, his solid warmth behind her, enveloping her. In that moment, as they watched two star-crossed lovers meet serendipitously on a train, she felt once more that the overwhelming heat she felt singing in her veins and nerves—the same heat that made her heart drum with joy—may have been something more than a crush or mere friendship. In that moment, as he laughed a throaty laugh at the on-screen antics, one that rumbled through her and shook her magical core, she knew in her heart that she was definitely in love with Draco Malfoy.

 

o-o-o

 

 

 

 

 


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23:

 

Hermione clutched at the delicate brown envelope that Harry’s owl, Eucalyptus, had delivered. She stroked the light brown feathers of the barn owl and he gave a pleasant hoot and nipped at her affectionately. Hermione retrieved a spare cat treat and gave it to the owl—she wasn’t picky.

 

The owl took flight once more, with Hermione’s letter of gratitude attached and she closed the window, eager to shut out the brisk late November air. She climbed onto her bed and carefully opened the envelope and dumped the contents out on the bed. Brochures on cochlear implants that she had asked Harry to go into the hospital in London and obtain from doctors.

 

Draco spent so much time and effort trying to please Hermione, trying to do little things to show her how much he truly cared. She touched the charm around her neck and could feel his steady heartbeat against her fingers. He had spent the day in the hospital wing, learning some healing tips and tricks from Madam Pomfrey.  He wanted to obtain a coveted apprenticeship with L’Apothicaire de Maurice in Paris and the competition for this apprenticeship was vigorous. He already had a disadvantage by being an ex-Death Eater, so he had been studying hard and shadowing Madam Pomfrey.

 

Hermione wanted to do one thing for him, to return the favor. She knew if she showed him these information leaflets, if she could show him that Alya’s life could be a little less complicated, he would be over the moon. She worried about how the world would react to Alya, once it was found out that the Malfoys had a child that had been sheltered away for years. She worried about the poor girl, growing up in an orphanage for the majority of her life, put aside by a family that felt they had no other choice. How would she assimilate into a life at Beauxbatons? Especially with the added disability and likely speech problems she would have, even if they went through with the cochlear implants.

 

She flipped through the information. There was a little money in her Muggle account, put there by her parents in case of an emergency. There was enough to cover the surgery. If Narcissa, Draco and Alya decided to go through with it, she would pay the hospital before Narcissa had the opportunity. This was the one thing she could do for Draco, after everything he had done for her. She put the leaflets back into the brown envelope and then placed them on her nightstand.

 

Draco. Just the thought of him had her heart racing in mere moments, butterflies battling within her belly. She thought of his handsome, sly smile when he was trying to coax her into snogging instead of studying. The gentle, bashful way he ran his hands over her bare hips and back, never being too adventurous but being just adventurous enough to torture her. The deep lull of his voice as he spoke to her late into the night, his breathy laughs like the sweetest music. His brilliance—he was every bit as clever as her, if not a touch more. His sense of humor—dark but flirty. His unwavering dedication to her, doting on her every whim, every need. He was one of the sweetest, kindest, most incredible souls she had ever met.

 

Hermione Granger was absolutely, wholeheartedly and unmistakably in love with Draco Malfoy.

 

She had tried to beat around the bush for so long now. Tiptoe around the serious nature of their relationship. She knew they were going to end up together—they’d both seen it. But what the brightest witch of her age had not accounted for was how quickly and easily she fell in love with a man who had once been her schoolyard rival.

 

Every facet of her life pointed to it. She thought of his beautiful, crestfallen face first when she awoke and last before she fell to slumber, regardless of whether he was alongside her. She scarce made a decision about anything without first taking into account how it would make him feel or how it would affect him. When they were together, she was elated beyond measure and when they were apart, she missed him so deeply her chest ached, as though his absence left a tangible hole in her heart. Her every waking moment and most of her slumbering ones were centered around her beautiful, broken man. She thought it absurd that there had ever been a time when she wasn’t in love with him, provided that all-encompassing feeling ruled her so much now.

 

But _how_ to tell him? _When_ to tell him? It wasn’t something she could just blurt out. She suspected he may feel the same way, if his selfless and thoughtful acts were any indication. But she couldn’t be for certain. Though he was getting so much better about letting her in, he was still guarded—and rightfully so.

 

When he had written her about how much he admired her, he had written it in a journal for her to read, too bashful to say the words aloud for fear of rejection. The thought of trying to say the three little words aloud to him was panic-eliciting. What if she was gauging his affections for her all wrong? What if he was still considering her no more than a friend and occasional snogging partner? She didn’t know what she would do if she said the three little words to him and they just hung in the air as he thought of a way to let her down gently. She felt that same fear he must have felt when he’d written to her. She retrieved the journal from her nightstand drawer and ran her fingers along the spine, wondering if she could muster enough Gryffindor bravery to even write her feelings eloquently enough.

 

There was a soft knock at the door and Draco let himself in. He was freshly showered—one of Hermione’s favorite ways to see him. He was wearing a pair of lounging pants and a plain white t-shirt, his usual black absent as he stepped in and leaned against the door he’d just closed. He had washed and brushed his hair, but it was kept devoid of products as he was clearly intending to turn in for the night. As a result, it fell across his face in still-damp strands. He had opted for a short-sleeved tee and she saw the pale pink of his Dark Mark as he tucked his hands behind him and closed his eyes. “I have never been around so many whiny children in my entire life. The kids at the orphanage have nothing on the fifth year Ravenclaws with the dragon flu,” he lamented, sighing and standing up straight after a moment.

 

As Hermione surveyed him, what she’d just been thinking about sprang to her mind once more. When he began walking toward her, her heart had jumped to tickle her epiglottis and she nearly blurted it out right then. He looked so delectable and his voice was so calming to her, that tangible hole in her heart suturing itself together for the time being. He raised an eyebrow at her faint blush, brushing his fingertips over the soft curve of her cheek. “Do I even want to know what on earth you are thinking about right now, Granger?” he teased, though there was an underlying huskiness to his voice that made her knees knock as she sat on the edge of the bed.

 

“N-nothing,” she sputtered and Draco let out a low laugh.

 

“You’re a terrible liar,” he told her, the brown envelope catching his attention. “What is that?”

 

Hermione retrieved the envelope and put her hand into it, pulling out the top brochure. She hesitated for only a moment before handing it to him. Would he react negatively to the thought of Muggles touching his sister? Draco’s brow wrinkled for a moment as he scanned the information contained within. She was silently holding her breath as she watched his reactions. His face went from stony concentration to fascinated awe to something she didn’t recognize as he brushed a knuckle over his eye and cleared his throat. “Muggles can do this? And the deaf individual would be able to hear?”

 

“There is a lot of technology that goes into it, but essentially, if everything goes well during the surgery, yes. Alya would be able to hear,” Hermione told him slowly.

 

He raised an eyebrow at the word ‘technology’ but he took the envelope from her and peered within at the other five leaflets. “May I take these to show Alya and my mother?” he asked politely, his voice thick with unspoken emotion at the prospect that his sister might one day hear.

 

“Of course…I want to give Alya the best life possible,” Hermione responded with a shrug.

 

Draco slipped the paper back into the envelope and then set it on her nightstand. “Granger…I don’t even know what to say…”

 

“I haven’t done anything yet,” she informed him as he stepped between her knees and pushed her hair behind her ear when she looked up at him.

 

“You went through the trouble to research all of this for her because you know it means something to me. You’re incredible,” he protested.

 

“It’s no big deal, really,” she replied humbly.

 

“Silly, humble witch, what am I going to do with you?” he teasingly asked as he brought his lips to hers, not giving her time to answer.

 

o-o-o

 

 

Draco felt something deep within his chest as he brought his lips to touch hers. She was an incredible witch, woman, human being. He cared so deeply for her and tried his hardest to make up for his past indiscretions against her with everything he had. He didn’t deserve the dedication or love she showed to him. Draco was unsure of whether she was _in_ love with him, but there was no question that love, even platonic, was behind her actions. She was so selfless, so pure, so _amazing_.

 

He threaded one hand into her curls, wanting more contact with her. He wanted to feel her, feel that she was absolutely real because most days, he felt as though she were a cruelly beautiful dream and he would wake up any time, broken and soulless in Azkaban. He always tried his utmost to show her that he valued more than just her female form. He kept the pace slow, trying to show her the respect she deserved. He would not take advantage of her this early. Hermione was so much more than a quick shag. She was every bit as untouched as he was, and he wanted their first time to mean something. Not just some hormone fueled romp on her bed. Theo teased him nearly relentlessly about his sense of romanticism. But Draco didn’t care. He would wait until the time was right, until they were solidly and rightfully in love. His heart gave a flutter at the thought, his mouth increasing in fervor against hers. He needed _just a little more_. But how much more would she be okay with?

 

Hermione put her hands on both of his hips and ran them up under his shirt, before dragging one down his outer thigh. He had one hand threaded into her curls and the other propping him up on the bed next to her hip where she sat. Hermione’s pulse started beating rapidly under his palm and the curls at her neck. She seemed to gather what courage she had and moved her hand across the front of his thigh and over the front of his trousers. He was always so careful not to go too far and he could feel his body tense up with the strain of his self-control.

 

Draco pulled back, a growl at the back of his throat and his eyes trained on hers for a moment. He thought for a split second about pulling away completely. She deserved better than he could ever give her. But, Merlin, her smaller hand felt so _good_ creating a friction through the cotton of his pajama bottoms. He quickly brought his lips to hers once more, afraid he would lose his courage if he hesitated any more. He pushed her back into her bedding and her skirt fell around her hips, bundling at the crux of her thighs as he leaned over her. It was a miracle of Merlin that he was able to keep kissing her and not break apart to look where her knickers were clearly exposed.

 

He was leaning up on one hand, using his other to slide over her leg, hip, waist, clothed breast. She was kissing with an intensity he hadn’t ever felt from her as her hands went around to grab his hips. She pulled and he pushed, grinding himself against her sinuously until there was a friction that they’d been so careful to avoid until now. She pushed his chest away lightly and he pulled back, his eyes wide and his lips swollen with kisses. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice strained, worried that he’d pushed too much.

 

“Nothing at all. I just need some… _contact_ ,” she told him, tugging his shirt up to indicate to him she wanted it off.

 

He pulled it up over his head and tossed it aside, smirking as she hungrily drank in the sight of the muscles of his taut chest, abdomen and arms moving beneath the creamy skin he caught her endlessly marveling over. Hermione scooted back in the bed so she was sitting against her pillows and she pulled her own jumper up and over her head, sitting clad only in a sensible white cotton brassiere. Draco made a low appreciative hum in his chest and climbed on the bed, crawling up to where she waited like a panther stalking prey.

 

Once he reached her and positioned between her legs once more, he placed kisses over her bare skin, up over her clavicles, her neck and to her mouth. She slipped her fingers under the top of his trousers and grabbed his bare bottom, pushing him forcefully against her once more, both craving the friction. He pulled back from his kisses, looking down at her bra. He worked out within seconds that it clasped in the front and it took him just a moment to undo the clasp. He didn’t pull the fabric apart but instead ran his hands down to grasp her ribcage on either side. _Just a little more._ Hermione was having none of his hesitation, growing ever more impatient. She wriggled beneath him, jostling the fabric apart and slight blush crept up her chest and neck as she watched him watching his hands slide up to cup her breasts. Merlin, was there anything more perfect in this world that the way she seemed to be made just for him?

 

Draco dropped to rest on his side beside her, pulling the straps of her bra over one arm at a time and then tossing the offending piece of clothing to the floor when she leaned up for its removal. He pushed one arm under her shoulders to hug her closer to himself, dropping his forehead to her shoulder as he ran a hand over her abdomen. Her skin was so warm, a beautiful rosy golden shade against the paleness of his hands.

 

Hermione maneuvered herself so that she was straddling his hips and leaning over him. He leaned forward, the need to taste her bare flesh overwhelming as he took the taut peak of one breast into his mouth, sliding his hands up her thighs and to her bum. With a firm grip, he pushed her down, eliciting a melodic noise from the back of her throat. He did it again, the friction of their bodies, separated by two layers of clothing, driving him nearly mad. She was looking down at him, brushing her fingers through his still damp hair when he pulled back and ran his hands up to rest on either side of her waist.

 

How? How could someone be so resplendent? How had he ever thought otherwise? Even with her hair wild from his fingers, her olive toned skin pinkened in splotches and a skirt, stockings and knickers on, hiding her lower half, she looked better than any witch he’d ever seen in _Pure Play_ or any other raunchy thing Theodore had managed to show him over their lives. She was sexy and gorgeous, yes. But more than that, she was divine, bewitching, elegant. She had a wild, ancient beauty to her, like the daughter of Menelaus and Helen she was so aptly named after. A classic splendor that he absolutely loved.

 

Gods, he adored her. Every fucking thing about her. Her mind, her personality, her selflessness, her bombshell body. _Every little thing._ Draco loathed the day she would come to realize he was nothing, that she finally came to her senses and walked out of his life for good. He had no right to adore the witch as much as he did. She deserved someone who could love her in a way she deserved—wholly, selflessly. Someone who could admit their feelings for her outside of a journal. Someone who would know _how_ to love her. Someone who would realize that she preferred orchids and roses to carnations; coffee to tea; charms to potions; Muggle punk rock to wizarding jazz. Someone who took the time to listen to her fears of rejection, of failure, of never having her family back. Someone who could sleep alongside her without pressuring her into sex, content with just watching her, caressing her gently, brushing her hair away from her face when she turned over, laughing at her sweet little snores. Someone who would stop at nothing and would do every possible thing within his power to make her happy.

 

The thought caused an aching in his heart that he tried to ignore as he stared up at the beauty before him. She had pulled away, her lips puffy with his kisses, and was smiling down at him. Her chest heaved lightly with her panting breaths as she ran tickling fingers over his jaw. “Hermione, I—”

 

He _what?_ His voice caught in his chest as she raised an eyebrow at him, smiling playfully as she tucked her toes beneath his bum and planted her hands on his chest, staring down at him. Draco leaned up, gently pacing his hands on either side of her face to lightly caress her jawline. “You?” she prompted.

 

He brought his lips to hers once more, hoping to convey what he felt as he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her warm body to his, clinging to her as though she would run out any moment. _Always a coward._

 

o-o-o


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24:

 

“Do you think she’ll be excited?” Draco asked Hermione as they walked through St. Mungo’s to the orphanage wing.

 

“I hope so. It will be a big change for her,” Hermione responded, threading her fingers through Draco’s.

 

“I’m so excited to bring her home in a few weeks. My mother prepared her room six months ago in the hopes that this would happen…I can’t wait to see the look on my mother’s face when we bring Alya home for Christmas,” he told her, his voice swelling with pride.

 

Hermione knew he considered this to be the crowning moment in the testament of love for his family. Not taking the Mark and wallowing through the Dark Lord’s mire. Bringing Alya home was going to be the single most important event Draco had ever orchestrated for his mother. She couldn’t be happier that she was going to be a part of this with him. Somehow, it felt to Hermione that his allowing her such a privilege was the beginning of his letting her in.

 

When they entered the orphanage, the six younger children who were to be attending the trip to the sanctuary and two of the teens were already waiting for them. The Healers and caretakers had given them freshly washed clothing, had bathed them all and brushed their hair to make them all presentable. The children, in turn, looked thrilled to be given the opportunity to leave the premises even if it meant combing their hair. The Healers smiled kindly and exchanged pleasantries quickly. “Mr. Dragon! Miss Minnie!” one of the little girls—Hazel—screeched, crossing the room in a series of excited tiny footsteps.

 

She threw her little arms around both of their legs and when Draco bent on one knee to give her a hug, the other five little children bombarded them with hugs. “Did you bring us a present, Miss Minnie?” Jules asked, recalling the chocolate frogs they’d received on Hermione’s last trip.

 

“If you all are well behaved at the dragon sanctuary, we’ll give you a present at the end,” Draco told them all, shaking the hands of the teens with a bright smile. “And you two,” he motioned to them, “please help us keep these little rapscallions in line!”

 

“Rapscallions!” Artemis wailed gleefully and he wielded an invisible sword and took off running down one hallway.

 

“He’s going to get Alya,” Draco told Hermione. “Then we need to get to the portkey.”

 

The shy blonde girl emerged from the corridor in a pretty and pressed pink dress, her long hair tied back in a matching ribbon. She looked the picture of Narcissa Malfoy’s daughter in that moment and Draco grinned wide, mumbling the spells so Hermione could communicate with Alya seamlessly. “Hello, Alya,” Draco’s mouth and hands said.

 

The girl stepped forward and gave him a hug and then gave Hermione a gentle wave. “Hello. You look lovely in that dress,” Hermione’s mouth and hands said.

 

 _Thank you, Miss Minnie._ Hermione’s own voice translated in her head.

 

“Children, let us get to the portkey now,” Draco said, ushering the brood toward the fireplace, his hands and mouth working in time.

 

Hermione watched as a few children interacted with Alya, none speaking aloud, but all hands moving quickly as they shared laughs. The children acted like a small family and Hermione wondered how Alya would take having to leave them all behind. Draco retrieved a silver dragon keychain from his pocket, wrapped in emerald green velvet. He unwrapped it and gave everyone a stern look. “On the count of three, we will all touch this with one finger. We need to practice our quiet time while we do this, okay?”

 

The kids all nodded. “Okay, Miss Minnie, count us off.”

 

Hermione counted and Draco lowered the keychain, taking the hand of the smallest child. On three, the children all put one finger on the shiny piece of metal and they were all sucked away. When they landed, the children were all laughing gleefully, sprawled out on the grass. Hermione laughed and shot Draco a look as he brushed his own trousers off.

 

They had landed on a rolling hillside and she looked around her at the vast, limitless expanse of land. There was a large Antipodean Opaleye stalking a group of ferrets only a hundred yards from them, crouched and lithe like a cat chasing a mouse. Hermione lifted a hand and touched the gate that blocked off the grounds of the sanctuary. “You’re sure this is safe?” she asked one last time.

 

“Yes. There are magical bindings that are placed around each dragon, to ensure that they cannot breathe fire and burn anything beyond the invisible barriers. They’re all docile here—the troublemaking Horntails are kept at the back of the grounds and we are not allowed in that section,” Draco explained.

 

“Who’s ready to go in?” Hermione asked them all excitedly.

 

The children were all hopping up and down, their enthusiasm palpable. Draco placed the tip of his wand to the gate locks. “Who’s there?” came a voice from thin air.

 

“Draco Malfoy. Party of eleven.”

 

The gate swung open and admitted them. A man came sauntering from within the building closest to them, a small Pomeranian sized dragon curled across his shoulders. He extended his hand. “Draco. Long time, no see. And this time you’ve brought a bunch of tiny humans!”

 

The children “oohed” and “aahed” over the small dragon, while Draco placed his hand on Hermione’s lower back. “Mel, this is my girlfriend, Hermione,” he said, that same tone of pride returning to his voice.

 

This was the first time Draco had ever used that term aloud to someone and she felt a small thrill run through her. Mel pulled the dragon from his shoulders and held it like one might hold a cat, bending down to show the purple reptilian to the kids. “This is Oliver, everyone. He’s just a baby, but we found him in Russia during a snow storm. Who wants to pet him?”

 

Draco leaned in and whispered to Mel, whose eyes darted to Alya for a brief moment. He nodded once and Draco placed the proper charms for Mel to be able to articulate and understand sign language. Alya stepped forward shyly, hiding behind Draco slightly at first before she gathered her courage and reached up to run a finger along the dragon’s spine.

 

The kids all bubbled with joy and Draco stood back and watched as the dragon tamer explained the proper way to scratch a dragon. He put his hands in his pockets and smiled to himself. When he felt Hermione’s gaze on him, he turned to her and gave her a quirked eyebrow. “You’re good with children,” she remarked and his smirk grew ever deeper.

 

“Did you doubt that?” he asked quietly, circling his fingers around her wrist. “You’ve seen me sing to our son. Comfort our crying daughter.”

 

Hermione’s heart began to thrum with his gentle reminders and he gave her a strange look of longing, before, “We’ll get there one day, Granger. I promise.”

 

His declaration of promise, once a nuisance to Hermione’s over-eager hormones, gave her gooseflesh. He said it now with conviction, as though that were his end goal. “I can’t wait,” she whispered back, a small smile playing at her lips as she looked down at her shoes bashfully.

 

And she really couldn’t. Hermione wanted to fast forward in their journey. She wanted to skip all of the heartache that surely waited for them in their future as they tried to navigate an unforgiving and still freshly wounded world. The beautiful man dropped her hand and stepped forward to lift Bennie—a slight boy of no more than four—up so he could reach the dragon’s head.

 

Draco Malfoy was incredible. And he was all hers. The thought made Hermione want to scream her declarations of love to the world. To tell every witch and wizard in the world how much she truly admired and loved him. But, instead, her palms became sweaty and she wiped them against the fabric of her denims. She placed her fingers over the pulsing charm around her neck. _One…two…three…_

Draco looked up at her and smiled again. _Four. Five. Six. Seven…_ his heartbeats came faster. The feelings were mutual. She was almost certain of it. But how to tell him?

 

o-o-o

 

“Alya, can you come sit with Miss Minnie and me?” Draco requested.

 

They were all in the center of the sanctuary, the children happily munching on their lunches as they watched flying dragons that closely resembled pterodactyls flapping overhead. Alya did as she was asked, popping a grape into her mouth. She looked expectantly at Draco and gave him an impatient look she’d seen on her brother’s face a million times. Hermione nearly laughed at the resemblance. “Alya, we have something to tell you!” Draco’s hands moved.

 

_What? You seem happy._

Draco bit his bottom lip and peeked at Hermione, trying to gather courage. “How would you like to spend Christmas at the vineyard with us?” he asked.

 

He placed his hands on the tabletop, tapping the woodgrain nervously. Alya studied him for a good long moment, trying to read his expressions. Then she looked to Hermione. _Will Miss Minnie be there?_ Hermione nodded. Draco continued. “This will be a permanent move—you’ll come home until it’s time to go to Beauxbatons for your education.”

 

Alya peered over her shoulder at the other children. _Can they come, too?_ Hermione’s heart clenched. She had figured that Alya would have a hard time with leaving her family behind to go to a home unfamiliar to her. Draco shook his head slowly and gave her a sympathetic look. “No. But we can come back and visit them. Mother wants you to come home so she can spoil you rotten.”

 

Alya giggled lightly, a pleasant noise coming from such a quiet, soulful individual. _Can we decorate the tree?_

Draco grinned at his sister. “Of course.”

 

Alya’s face broke into a full-on Lucius Malfoy smirk. _All ten of them?_

Hermione laughed at that. Even eight-year-old Alya found it hilarious, the Malfoys’ show of wealth and pomp. Draco rolled his eyes. “There’s more.”

 

At this, he grew visibly anxious and Alya’s face fell slightly. She placed a tiny hand to Draco’s cheek for a moment, before using it to ask, _What is it?_

Draco looked to Hermione and she gave him a small smile. He nodded toward her slightly, wanting her to speak. Hermione pulled a pamphlet from her beaded bag and set it in front of Alya. “I am a witch, Alya. But my parents were Muggles.”

 

Alya gave the older witch a strange look of regard, but her hands remained still. “Muggles have a small device that they can give to people like…people who can’t hear. It can help people hear, even if they never have.”

 

Alya’s eyebrows disappeared into her white blonde fringe and she picked up the pamphlet, intrigued by the fact that the pictures didn’t move. _How?_

“By putting a small device inside of your head, right by your ear,” Hermione replied.

 

“Alya. Miss Minnie said if you wanted one, we could get one for you,” Draco’s voice rang through Hermione’s head as his hands moved, but his lips remained closed.

 

The young girl looked at the pictures once more, running a fingertip over them. Then she looked up with large, watery eyes. _Do you think I’m a freak?_

Draco looked taken aback and like someone had just slapped him. “No. Of course I don’t!”

 

_Then why do you think I need to change?_

This was not at all how Hermione had hoped for this conversation to go. Draco seemed to be saying the same thing. “I love you just how you are, Alya. I simply want to give you the best life possible!”

 

_I just want to see mum. And you and Miss Minnie and decorate trees._

“And we can. What Draco is trying to say, is he wants to make sure you get the best care and that, if there is a way to make your life easier, he wants to make it happen. Your brother and your parents love you,” Hermione’s hands flew wildly.

 

_There is nothing wrong with me._

“Don’t you worry what others may say?” Draco asked slowly.

 

_No. If they don’t like me, then they are mean and not my friends anyway. There’s nothing wrong with me. I don’t want it._

Hermione was stunned by the bravery of this young girl as she dropped the pamphlet in front of the older witch once more. The youngest Malfoy was going to face the world head on and was determined to be herself in the process. The thought humbled Hermione and she suddenly felt foolish as she and Draco shared a stunned glance.

 

Alya hopped off of her chair and went to the table where Artemis and Bennie were eating sandwiches. If she hadn’t been born in the snake den, Hermione would certainly believe the girl a Gryffindor. She was far braver than Hermione could ever hope to be. The realization that this eight-year-old girl was wise beyond her years and had just taught them a very important lesson about life was raw between them.

 

Draco’s hand instinctively touched the spot where his fading Dark Mark was hidden under cloth. Hermione reached across the table and took his hand in her own. When the children all seemed to grow restless, Mel returned, levitating a glass cage in front of him. He put the cage on one of the tables. “Gather round, everyone! I want to show you a rare breed of dragons—the _draconus miniscura_. They are extremely rare and only found in the desert—”

 

“Still want to go on that wizarding date?” Draco asked Hermione, his eyes trained on his courageous little sister, seeming to soak in some of her bravery as he did.

 

o-o-o

 

 


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25:

 

“A Quidditch game?” Draco echoed Hermione’s words after she’d spoken them.

 

Hermione was nervous about telling him exactly where she intended to take him on their wizarding date. She hated the look of panic that crossed his face at the thought of going somewhere so full of people, so exposed. She put a hand tenderly to his jaw and tilted his face up. “Draco. Listen to me. I want to take you out and show you off, just as you did with me.”

 

“We didn’t know anyone! There wasn’t going to be some production in the next day’s newspaper!” he argued.

 

“Why keep hiding it? It’s only a matter of time before some student here decides they want a few extra galleons in their pocket and then blabs anyway. Are you ashamed of me?” she asked him, stepping between his knees.

 

His pewter eyes shot up to hers and he narrowed them incredulously. “How could you even think that?”

 

“That sentiment is mutual,” Hermione countered, lightly kissing his lips.

 

“I’m an ex-Death Eater. I have plenty for you to be ashamed about,” he nearly choked out, placing his hands on her hips.

 

“And yet, I’m not. Hmm…strange,” she teased, trying to lighten the mood. “Come to the game with me. You love the Falmouth Falcons.”

 

She could see the twinkle in his eye at the thought of seeing his favorite team play. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and nestled her face into the crook of his neck, relishing the feel of his arms enclosing around her. “Draco…I…enjoy being with you. I don’t care what others think and despite what you may think, I am so proud to be able to call you my own.”

 

His arms reflexively tightened around her and he placed a docile kiss on her shoulder. “Okay. I’ll go. But I just want it on record that I warned you about the negative press ahead of time.”

 

Hermione pulled back and ran her thumbs over his cheekbones. Her reasons for taking him were partly selfish—she just wanted the looming dread of going public with their relationship over and done with. And she wanted the world to see how much he’d changed; how brilliant he was. But she also knew that it was exactly what _he_ needed as well. Draco had a hard time moving forward and he needed to be given gentle nudges in the right direction.

 

“Remember what Alya said?” she reminded him.

 

He smiled slightly and nodded. “Clearly growing up away from my parents’ influence did her a world of good. She’d be a Gryffindor, for sure.”

 

“Well, isn’t there even a little bit of this Gryffindor rubbing off on you?” she teased and only realized the innuendo when his cheeks flushed lightly.

 

“I suppose we won’t be sitting in a box, then?” he asked, pushing her hips back so he could stand.

 

“Erm,” Hermione shifted awkwardly on her feet. “I couldn’t afford very _good_ seats. We’re kind of high up…”

 

“I didn’t want you buying anything to begin with,” he reminded her.

 

They’d had their first real argument only a few days prior when Hermione insisted that she not tell him where they were going and then insisted on paying. Draco’s aristocratic upbringing had him bristling at the idea that the witch would pay for the date. His mother would “beat him with a cleaning broom if she ever found out,” he’d argued. But Hermione had stood her ground and he’d sulked.

 

“Hush. Not this again,” she put a finger over his lips. “We are going to go and enjoy watching your favorite team obliterate the opposition.”

 

“Why are you agreeing to go see a game? You _hate_ Quidditch.”

 

“I don’t _hate_ it. I just don’t care to speak about it every second of every day like Harry and Ron. I don’t particularly understand the appeal…except perhaps when it comes to those _uniforms_ ,” she said, raising her eyebrow at him.

 

Draco let out a low growl at the back of his throat. “I still have that uniform, witch. I’m not above wearing it just to _tease_ you.”

 

Hermione recalled how delectable his bum looked in those trousers and she swatted his chest. _What a tease he was._ “Put on some denims and something _comfy_ ,” she told him, pointing him in the direction of his wardrobe.

 

“So _bossy_ ,” he rolled his eyes.

 

Hermione could see the anxiety in the set of his jaw and knew he was on edge. She felt bad about even asking him to go this public. But they couldn’t keep putting off the inevitable. Especially if they were to keep visiting St. Mungo’s or Apparating in and out of Hogsmeade. They were playing with fire already.

 

He moved about, collecting his clothing and Hermione sat lazily in his armchair, lifting a book on Alchemy up and looking over its contents. Draco took a few steps toward his bathroom and then paused, peeking at her from the corner of his eye. He tossed his clothing to the bed and toed off his shoes.

 

Hermione peered over the top of the book and watched intently as he dragged his shirt over his head and moved to unfasten his belt. The sound of the metal buckle and the sight of his hands unbuttoning his trousers brought a blush to her cheeks. The charm around her neck pulsed quickly—he knew _exactly_ what he was doing, and he knew she was watching.

 

He tugged his trousers off his narrow hips and turned his back toward her, now feigning modesty. Hermione felt a Malfoy-worthy smirk spread over her face, though she enjoyed the sight of his taut muscles moving under the luminescent skin of his back. He pulled on a pair of dark colored denims and pulled the belt through each loop, slowly and purposefully. _Tease._ He had an old Slytherin House Quidditch shirt that looked like a striped rugby shirt that he pulled on. He crossed the room and put on a large faced watch, and Hermione noted that he seemed actually embarrassed to have been observed.

 

“Hmm…not as good as those tan regulation uniform trousers, but they’ll do,” she noted and he turned around with a complacent smile tugging at his lips.

 

He crossed the room to where she sat and took the book from her hands and tossed it back on the desk. “What about you, hmm?” he ran a finger in the rips along the front of her jeans. “What is the point of wearing trousers if they have holes along the thighs and knees?”

 

“Fashion,” she retorted with a laugh.

 

“Ah, _fashion._ Whose? Yours or the rest of the sane world’s?”

 

“I can go change, if you’d like. I’m sure I’ve got a pair of shapeless khakis and a polo shirt I could wear.”

 

He growled lightly once more, teasing her exposed kneecap with his fingertip. “Don’t you dare. I like this strange little edge you have. But we _are_ going to a Quidditch game, not a Muggle concert.”

 

And with that, he retrieved his wand from the table and leaned in to kiss just below her ear, pointing it at her chest. She giggled at his lips tickling her earlobe. When he pulled back, her Clash t-shirt now sported the Falmouth Falcons’ crest. She gave him a deep scowl. “Just so you know, I happen to be a staunch Cannons fan,” she chided.

 

He snorted. “Who’s their Seeker now?” he asked.

 

Hermione smirked, knowing he’d caught her. She couldn’t name the Seeker…or anyone else for that matter. He grinned. “Thought so. You date me, you cheer for the Falcons until you can formulate a genuine opinion about the teams. _Beyond_ how good their arses look in regulation uniforms.”

 

Hermione laughed loudly and Draco pulled her up from her sitting position, his grin falling as he realized they needed to go to make it on time. She squeezed his hand. “It’s going to be okay, Draco.”

 

o-o-o

 

“Wow…these are terrible seats,” Draco remarked, looking at their tickets as they made their way to the stands.

 

Hermione elbowed him and he let out a jovial laugh. His mood was lightening ever so slightly at the sounds of cheering and the buzz of excitement emanating from the stadium. She took his hand as they walked toward the crowds. It was just as they were approaching their section of the stadium that the first flash of a camera went blinded them. Draco came to a screeching halt and glared at the young man as he lowered his camera. A reporter next to him had a Quick-Quotes Quill, scratching furiously as she rounded on the couple.

 

“Why, Miss Hermione Granger. And if my eyes don’t deceive me, holding hands with none other than the equally-as-elusive Draco Malfoy,” she said, her toad-like face brightening with a wide smile.

 

“That’s right,” Hermione nodded. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we need to be getting to our seats. The game is getting ready to begin.”

 

“Oh, but how about a quick interview, hmmm? _Witch Weekly’s_ readers would just _love_ a story about how the War’s most sought after heroine has entwined her heart with that of the brooding Death Eater’s.”

 

“ _Draco_ and I would appreciate you kindly removing yourself from our path. I will not hesitate to hex you,” Hermione told the witch.

 

The reporter narrowed her eyes—toad green to match her ugly features. “It appears Mr. Malfoy’s ways have rubbed off on you.”

 

“The last reporter that bothered me and made hateful and salacious comments about an important wizard in my life was kept in a jar on my windowsill. That was when I was fifteen, long before Draco and I started seeing one another. So tell me again how he has negatively influenced my life,” the young witch said icily, pushing past her with a harsh shove of the shoulder.

 

“Damn, love. Vicious,” Draco commented under his breath.

 

Their interaction had raised awareness of their presence and they had drawn quite the nosy crowd. She looked sidelong at Draco and he clenched and unclenched his jaw before raising his chin defiantly, haughtily. He pulled her toward the stairs to climb toward where they were to be seated, placing his hand low on her back possessively. More flashes of cameras from behind him. A few people stared at them, a mix of incredulity, curiosity and a few in disgust. _“Dirty Death Eater,”_ someone hissed from their right and Hermione was getting ready to say something when Draco smiled at the wizard widely.

 

“Three years ago, I would not have hesitated to hex you into oblivion. But, lucky for you, I have the capacity to change. So, I’m going to let your snide remark about me slide. Just this once. Cheers,” he told the wizard with a wink.

 

Hermione felt her heart swell with pride. _Yes. Yes, this is what he needed. To finally defend himself._ They settled themselves into their seats, carefully selected at the end of the row so no one could refuse to sit next to him. It was cold in the stadium and the pair were bundled heavily. Draco huffed and cast a warming charm over them both so that they could remove the majority of their layers. He draped their belongings over the low wall before them and noted the line of reporters and cameras that were focused on them rather than the game.

 

“We’ve got company,” he told Hermione with a sour tone.

 

“Ignore them,” she told him, fighting the urge to flip them all the middle finger.

 

Draco licked his lips and looked beyond the reporters to where the stadium officials were giving the hoops a last-minute check. “I’m sure you brought a book to occupy your time?” he asked, looking over at her.

 

She gave him a look. “Actually, I didn’t.”

 

“You _always_ read at Quidditch games.”

 

“That’s because there was nothing worth watching at the Hogwarts’ games,” she told him, feigning ignorance to his position on the Slytherin team.

 

He poked her thigh and leaned in to kiss her jaw. More flashes. “You sly little witch. You think you’re ever so clever, don’t you?”

 

“You arrogant little wizard. You think you’re so good looking that I couldn’t drag my eyes away from you?”

 

“I know I am,” he remarked, running a hand over her leg.

 

She scooted closer to him and settled into his side. He draped an arm around her shoulders, hugging her close. More flashes. She sighed. “Oh, I can’t _wait_ to read what they write for tomorrow.”

 

“That I’m using an Imperius to control you, perhaps?” he suggested.

 

“Aren’t you? There’s no way I could have brought myself to kiss those lips otherwise,” she teased, trying to keep his mood lighthearted.

 

Draco merely hummed and she nuzzled her head closer to him. “I’m only joking.”

 

“I know,” he replied.

 

The announcer’s voice boomed out and the two teams were introduced. Draco stood in unreserved excitement as the Falcons mounted their brooms. Hermione smiled. It was so rare that the normally quiet and reserved pure-blood ever had a moment of fun where he could cheer and laugh and be free. He didn’t even seem too bothered by the flashes aimed toward them.

 

For over an hour, they watched the game proceed. Draco talked nonstop about what was taking place, the techniques of each player and what made each valuable to their respective teams. Hermione hated speaking about Quidditch with her two best friends. She found it dull, no matter their level of excitement. And she did usually read. But she found she loved the way Draco spoke quickly, flinched appropriately when players were hit with Bludgers, and cheered adamantly when the golden Snitch made its first appearance.

 

It was about the moment when the Falcons’ Seeker called a time-out that Hermione and Draco’s faces appeared on the large screens on either side of the pitch. _“It appears our very own Hermione Granger, one of the three saviors of the wizarding world, is in attendance today. And who is that she’s with? It couldn’t possibly be Draco Malfoy!”_

Draco looked on in horrified mortification and Hermione saw a short little, pimple-faced wizard pointing a camera at them and his wand at the camera, projecting their image onto the screens. The commentary continued about why she would be seen in public with the Malfoy heir. _“Does he want to use her status for his gain? Is it young love?”_

Draco grimaced and looked down at his hands dejectedly. “I told you this was a bad idea, Granger. But you never want to listen to me!”

 

“I don’t care what they’re saying,” she told him, looking at his face on the screen instead of next to her.

 

“Why? This is what it will always be like, Granger. I told you this since day one. Why would you even want to come here?” he asked, putting his face into his hands and rubbing his eyes.

 

Hermione looked at the sad set of Draco’s shoulders and the look of unbridled determination she had on her own face. She turned her eyes to the wizard with the camera, a smug look on his face and she gave him a blatant and obvious wink. They wanted a show? She was going to give them one. She would not settle for them trying to embarrass the one man she would give everything in her being to please. The one man she adored more than anything else in the entire world. It was about time she told him _exactly_ why she wanted to be here, watching the Falcons obliterate the Cannons with him. “Draco, look at me,” she placed a tender hand over his, pulling it away from his face.

 

He drew in a sharp breath, staring at his shoes. “Why don’t we get out of here? I’ll take you to a Muggle restaurant.”

 

“You look at me right this instant, Draco Lucius Malfoy,” she told him, in a tone she was certain reminded him of his mother if the way his eyes snapped to hers was any indication.

 

She put her hands on either side of his face, taking in the embarrassed and anguished look his eyes held. “I love you, Draco.”

 

His eyebrows lifted toward his hairline and a faint blush rose to his cheeks as a small smile tugged at his lips. She grinned and ran a finger over his heated skin. “I am here because I love you. I wanted to bring you to something that I knew you’d enjoy—which you have. Forget everyone else. Let them talk. I absolutely adore you. Spending time with you, your personality, the way you try to be the unworthy, broken man but fall into being the caring, loving and selfless one instead. I want to be with you every day for the rest of my life. Fuck them,” she told him, gesturing to the reporters.

 

Draco grinned at her language—it sounded like something he would say. “I love you,” she added one more time, for good measure, before bringing her lips to his.

 

He pulled back. “I love you, too, Granger. I’ve just been too cowardly to say it aloud. I’m sorry for that.”

 

She silenced him with another kiss and it registered that the shouts and ‘boos’ now coming from the crowd had nothing to do with the game. Everyone was going wild at the image of them kissing. Shouts of, _“But he followed You-Know-Who!”_ mingled with, _“Go get him, girl!”_ Draco smiled against her lips, unaffected by the words of the naysayers—his witch loved him. He was on top of the world. _Fuck them_.

 

“Well,” she said, pulling back slightly, “You can tell me every day for the rest of our lives, then. As penance for your egregious error.”

 

He brought his lips to hers once more, brushing them and pulling back a hairsbreadth, and whispered, “I love you,” before pushing a hand under her curls and pulling her face into his. She deepened the kiss, smiling as she gripped the front of his shirt in her fists. Draco finally pulled back, laughing breathlessly. “Do you ever do anything low-key?” he asked her, finally looking toward the reporters once more. “Flying dragons out of the Bank’s belly. Professing your love for a Death Eater in front of two thousand people and, by tomorrow morning, everyone in the wizarding world.”

 

“ _Ex-_ Death Eater, if you please.”

 

Draco laughed heartily, no longer caring about any of the negative things that were floating through the air around them. There was a fair share of people cheering them on—over half—and Hermione knew, that was enough for him. There were people willing to accept his existence and there were people who approved of him capturing the Golden Girl’s heart. Hermione looked at him, at the pretty rose flush painted across his cheeks, the toothy grin that seemed to be permanently stuck on his face. He was an incredible man, and he was all hers. Things were beginning to _finally_ look up for him and she was so thankful she was by his side to witness it all.

 

o-o-o

 

 


	26. Chapter 26

 

Chapter 26:

 

Hermione was spooning a bite of porridge into her mouth when the owls swooped in with the post. A copy of the _Daily Prophet_ landed in front of her and she nearly groaned when she saw the cover. There, splashed across the front, was a photo of her and Draco at the Falcons’ game. He glanced over her shoulder at the headline and gave the most unaristocratic snort. _Beguiled or Bewitched? A Granger—Malfoy Romance._

 

“Well, which is it then? Have I beguiled you, or bewitched you?” Draco asked as he plopped a dollop of jam into his porridge.

 

Her eyes scanned the pages and noted that most of it focused around the scandal of Draco’s lenient sentencing. When the article finally started discussing the pair, it seemed as though the consensus was that she’d been charmed by his wealth and handsome features and he was using her status for his own gain. There was some speculation on whether their relationship would last. “Apparently I’m with you for your wealth—both monetary and attractive looks. And you are with me because I, apparently, have some kind of sway in this world.”

 

She thought he would be upset by the information, but instead he smirked to himself slightly, looking at the photo of the two of them. “The photographer was decent—I’m keeping that.”

 

Hermione glanced down and studied the image. It showed Hermione grasp both sides of his face and she could clearly read her lips as the words, “I love you,” came pouring out. Even in the black and white shot, she could see his cheeks turn a darker shade of grey and recalled the lovely blush that had graced them. “If I had to answer your question from a personal standpoint, I’d say it was _I_ who beguiled _you._ I slithered into your heart like the Slytherin in this equation. You did the bewitching.”

 

“How on earth did I bewitch you, Granger?” he asked, looking at her with a raised eyebrow.

 

She hummed in response and tucked into her dish with an impish smile. “Must be your vault at Gringotts…or that stupidly attractive Cupid’s bow.”

 

Draco ran the tips of his fingers over his top lip and gave her a breathtaking smile. He leaned in and kissed her neck and the sweet smell of the blackberry jam he’d eaten ghosted over her face. “You don’t seem to have a problem with my lips any other time—you can hardly stop kissing them long enough to get schoolwork done. You never push me away when they’re on you,” he whispered, sending a thrill through her entire body with such an innocently masked statement.

 

After the Quidditch game, still reeling with elation at her declaration, he had snogged her nearly senseless. In the dim lighting and nestled within the warmth of his bed, Draco had gotten bold enough to slip a hand within her knickers and she’d reciprocated on him with equal fervor, touching, stroking, exploring. As memories of the night before flooded her mind, her cheeks began to burn, and she swatted him away playfully.

 

“Have you told your mother that Alya will be coming home this weekend?” Hermione asked, trying to get the conversation to table-appropriate context.

 

“No, I’m still thinking it should be a surprise. I can’t think of a single greater Christmas present to give to my mother than to bring her home after all these years,” he replied, smiling to himself.

 

o-o-o

 

Hermione sat in the library alone after dinner on the last day of classes before the holiday. Draco was interning with Madam Pomfrey—a second year Ravenclaw had accidentally botched a Pepper-Up Potion and had sprouting a rash of weeping boils. She had reclaimed her table by the window in the back and was currently getting ahead on some of the assignments for next term.

 

Arithmancy had always calmed her nerves—something about working and playing with numbers had always had a way of getting her mind focused like nothing else. She rose from the desk to retrieve a book from the Arithmancy stacks, deciding she needed more of a challenge. As she made her way to the far side of the library, she spotted a shock of white-blond hair and black clothing.

 

Her legs refused to budge further as she peered at him from between dusty tomes. It was just as it had been months prior when she had watched him from behind the guise of a disillusionment charm. She couldn’t yet feel the gentle hum of his magic, so he was wholly unaware of her presence as well. So, Hermione returned to her prior favorite pastime and watched him unencumbered for a few minutes.

 

Watching him now was so much different than it had been back in September. Now, just days from Christmas, she _knew_ him completely. She no longer had to wonder if his touch would be fire or ice—he was as gentle and warm as the tender June sun, his kiss enough to ignite a fire within her. She now knew _why_ his lips moved as he read silently to himself—years of reading aloud to overcome a stutter. As she watched his hands flicker over the spines of books, she knew _exactly_ how they felt tickling over her own spine.

 

Pride, longing and love welled within her as she watched him work to find the book he was looking for. Potions, likely something healing to better assist Madam Pomfrey. Draco had come such a far way from the broken boy he’d been that first night back in Hogwarts. He had stood up for himself for the first time at the Quidditch game, a fact that brought her great joy. He was finding his way and was, in turn, helping her know what it was to be loved wholly and fiercely.

 

Draco ran a hand though his hair, letting out a long sigh. Hermione could no longer stand by to watch him, she felt an undeniable pull toward him as she touched his steady heartbeat at her throat. She stepped around the stacks to slink up behind him and the moment his magic began to wash over her, he reached up to retrieve a book. “You know, Granger, looking is for free, but touching is going to cost you.”

 

Hermione let out a blithe laugh as he turned around, a grin splitting his face in two. “Oh? And what is your price, Mr. Debonair?” she asked, wrapping her arms around his waist.

 

“I don’t think you could offer me enough,” he told her, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

 

“Is that a challenge?” she asked, standing on her toes to kiss along his jaw.

 

“Absolutely.”

 

With that, Hermione backed him against the bookshelf, one hand tickling under the hem of his shirt, the other resting along the shelf, effectively caging him into the space. Draco returned her kiss earnestly, his hands clutching at her shirt. His kissing had changed since they both said the three little words that had niggled at their brains for far too long. Usually guarded in his passion, since the Quidditch match, he been mostly unrestrained. The knowledge that she reciprocated his feelings left him lighthearted. He was the one that was nearly incapable of keeping his hands, and his lips for that matter, to himself. Not that Hermione minded one bit.

 

“Detention! Both of you, as soon as you return from holidays. And fifty points from each house. The two of you know better!” Madam Pince told them, looking down at them from behind her glasses, her hands on her hips.

 

As they jumped apart, Draco rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry, Madam Pince,” he remarked, not sounding at all apologetic.

 

“Miss Granger. I am disappointed in you,” the witch told her, and Hermione felt a sharp stab go through her at the thought of disappointing the librarian.

 

“We really are sorry,” she said, her face burning at being caught.

 

“Detention,” Madam Pince reminded them before striding away.

 

Hermione swatted Draco’s arm. “You arsehole!” she told him.

 

“ _You_ kissed _me!”_ he reminded her, his grin entirely unapologetic at this point.

 

“You coerced me!” she laughed, moving to retrieve her bag from the desk by the window.

 

“Maybe detention will be in the Restricted Section,” he grinned, looking positively gleeful at the underlying implications of his words.

 

o-o-o

 

Draco fastened his watch, his hands shaking in nervous excitement as he thought of his mother’s face when Alya walked through the front doors of the French villa. “I can’t believe this day has finally come, Hermione,” he said, stepping into a pair of shoes and waving his wand to tie them.

 

His witch swatted his hands away from his watch, where he had failed to clasp it twice. “Your mother is going to be so thrilled. And Alya—wait until she sees the villa.”

 

“She was raised away from the drama. I’m hoping it can remain that way when my father is released. When the press finds out my parents have been hiding her away—”

 

Granger put a single finger over his lips to quell his speculations. “Hush. It will all work itself out. We made it through announcing to the world that we love one another. A secret female Malfoy child should be significantly less surprising than that,” she reasoned teasingly, buttoning the top button of his shirt and smoothing the front across his chest.

 

“Your blinding optimism never ceases to amaze me, Granger.”

 

“What good does worrying do? Hmm?”

 

Draco sighed. She was right, of course. She always was. But that did nothing to stop his stomach from flopping unpleasantly as he worried endlessly about how Alya’s life would inevitably change. There was an endless guilt that rattled him every time he saw her—he was raised by their parents, but she had to be stowed away and hidden from the Dark Lord and the world. The life she was about to be inducted into—nearly endless wealth and recognition, both good and bad—was sure to be a drastic change for her.

 

And there was bound to be the fair share of hecklers, who wrote nasty articles in the paper and followed Alya around Diagon Alley when she went out with their mother. That was what caused a gnawing worry in Draco’s gut. She would have to face their family’s legacy, not knowing how or why everything had gone so far south. She would be looked down upon by sheer association, though she’d never seen Voldemort face to face.

 

Draco touched his Mark through the cotton of his shirt sleeve. _Everything I did, I did for this moment._ He had to swallow down his shortcomings as though they were thick porridge, lodged in his esophagus. Granger looked up at him and touched his face tenderly. “It will be okay, Draco.”

 

Covering her hand with his own, he turned his face to kiss her palm. “I love you.”

 

Granger rewarded the sentiment with a broad smile, never tiring of hearing the phrase leave his lips. A real treat, because he never tired of saying it to her. “I love you, too. Come on. Let’s do this.”

 

She retrieved their packed trunk and shrank it to fit in her bag before taking his hand. Draco’s heart was thumping as they stepped through the Floo in the Headmistress’ office, bidding the elderly witch a ‘Happy Christmas’.

 

When they stepped into St. Mungo’s, the overwhelming smell of evergreen hit them, the massive trees lining the lobby twinkling pleasantly. Draco’s hand was sweating as he led Hermione back to the orphanage for what he hoped would be the last time. Alya was sitting with the others, everyone’s tiny hands flying as they told her how much they’d miss her and she hugged them all in turn. She was openly sobbing and Draco noticed she looked exactly like their mother when she did. Her sadness at leaving her adoptive family was palpable when she turned to him.

 

_Darla took my stuff._

Draco nodded his understanding, turning to Granger to place the translating charms on her. She put a hand up and covered his wand. She gave him a bashfully proud smile and turned to Alya, her hands moving with rehearsed ease.

 

 _Are you ready to decorate Christmas trees?_ She asked, the complete silence deafening Draco as he watched his witch interact with his sister without magical intervention. “You taught yourself sign language?” he managed to choke out, his emotions overwhelming him in that moment.

 

“I still have some troubles. You’ll no doubt need to assist me…I’ve only been teaching myself for a month or so, and I’m a quick learner, but not that quick,” she replied, placing her temple against his upper arm for a few brief seconds.

 

Draco looked down at her—this incredible, selfless, brave and beautiful woman. What had he done to deserve her love and attention? Alya had declined the cochlear implant and Hermione had researched and taught herself to speak with the girl—simply because it would mean something to him. _You ready to go home?_ Granger’s hands worked and Alya looked to her ragtag family and back at the older witch. She gave a small nod and took the hand that Granger extended.

 

Draco spoke with her caregivers, thanking them each in turn and bestowing upon them a gift of a healthy donation to their wing. It was a dream of his to be able to open a proper orphanage, a place where the children wouldn’t have to feel as though there was something wrong with them because they were housed in a makeshift area of a hospital. He hoped to share this idea with Hermione soon, once Alya had gotten settled into her new life.

 

They made their way to the Floo and Alya held Granger’s hand as she stepped into it, her eyes wide as saucers with curiosity and apprehension. Draco gave her a small smile. _See you at home, Aly._ Alya gave him one tiny nod and they were gone in a whoosh of emerald flames. He swiftly stepped in, calling out the French villa’s name.

 

When he stepped out, Alya was looking around the room in sheer wonder and awe. She dropped Granger’s hand to speak. _It’s humungous!_

Draco let out a grumbling laugh and peered around the room, intricately and richly decorated but simple and elegant. _Always flashy._ Granger laughed with him as Alya nodded, walking toward a moving photo of Draco with their parents. He felt a stab of sadness at the way she eyed the picture with longing. _We’ll be able to take lots of pictures now!_

 

Draco nodded in agreement. _Miss Minnie, too?_ Alya took Granger’s hand once more. Draco nodded again. _Miss Minnie, too._

 

_Where is mum?_

 

He looked around the room and saw no sign of their mother. She would likely be in the tearoom at this point—it was nearly noon. He held out his other hand and Alya was sandwiched between him and Hermione as he made his way through the corridor and to the tearoom. And that was precisely where his mother was, arguing with Darla. “Darla, I think you are mistaken, there is—”

 

“Mother,” Draco drawled from behind her.

 

The elder witch swung around and her eyes grew wide and her brows disappeared under a carefully coifed fringe. “Aly!”

 

She crossed the room quickly, scooping her daughter up and lifting her into the air to swing her around. The young girl giggled in delight, running her fingers through Narcissa’s long hair and touching her face with one small hand. “Oh, my girl, my sweet little angel. How on earth?”

 

Draco watched his mother interact with his sister, completely uninhibited in the privacy of their home. The scene made his heart soar—he’d never seen his mother happier in his life. She set the girl down and turned to him, glassy tears filling her crystal eyes. “Oh, dragon. How on earth did you pull this off?” she asked, waving him over to give her a hug.

 

He shuffled his feet toward his family and fought back his own happy tears. “I have my ways. A lot of pleading, mostly,” he joked with a clipped laugh.

 

“I cannot believe you brought her home! And just before Christmas!” she turned to Alya once more. _We’ll head into the city, so I can spoil you rotten!_

Alya giggled once more and Draco had no doubt in his mind that his mother would hold to those words. He knew she struggled every day with having to hide her only daughter, and her guilt would translate into showering the young witch with innumerable gifts. “Mother how about we show her the house? Her room?”

 

Narcissa let out a charming laugh, and took her daughter’s hand, smoothing her ponytail and fussing over the baggy dress she wore. Draco watched them head in the direction of Alya’s new room and turned to Granger. “You’re absolutely incredible, you know that?” he asked, pulling her in to give her a kiss to the forehead.

 

“I figured it was the least I could do since she turned down my initial offer,” she said with a shrug, angling her forehead toward his lips to give him easier access.

 

“I can’t thank you enough for joining me this Christmas. I will make it up to you, I promise,” he swore to her.

 

“I’m here because I want to be, Draco. You don’t owe me anything,” she told him, pulling away to plant a sweet kiss to his lips and take his hand. “Let’s go see her reaction to her new room.”

 

And Draco allowed himself to be pulled along to the entire suite his mother had created for his sister. As she walked in front of him, her curls bouncing about her head prettily, he knew he loved her more than he ever thought possible. His love for Hermione Granger was all encompassing, enveloping his heart, body and soul like a neatly packed gift.

 

o-o-o

 

 


End file.
